


All the World's a Stage (So Don't Forget Your Line!)

by orphan_account



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Eating Disorder, F/F, FWBs, M/M, Multi, Pining, Romance, Smut, dissociative disorder, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3985138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Ross Hornby’s debut blockbuster, with his reputation as a director and producer on the line.   But unfortunately for everyone involved, the two actors he’s hired for the main roles seem to hate each other’s guts. ~Hatsome Film AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blast from the Past

The living room is dark, except for the spot in front of the couch, which is bathed in bright white light. The boom stick girl shifts awkwardly on her feet, causing a shadow to dip just in frame.

Not that it matters; none of this is usable anyway.

“How hard is it to remember two lines of dialogue? Two goddamn lines?”

“How hard is it to not be an absolute twat?”

Ross sighs, leaning back in the director’s chair and dropping his head into one of his hands. The other is draped on top of the camera, as if to reassure the equipment that none of this is its fault.

And it isn’t. It really isn’t. This is top-of-the-line equipment, stuff Ross never could’ve afforded on his own. All thanks to the investors, who for some reason have decided that Ross’ shitty flick presents an opportunity.

Ross is beginning to doubt that, himself.

“At least I take pride in my work!”

“Oh, and I don’t?”

“I’m sure you take pride in your _underwear modeling_.”

“What, you checking out my spread?”

Ross sucks in a deep breath. “The camera is still running, for fuck’s sake! Run through one more time, please!”

Trott turns and gives him an icy look, direct through the camera lens. “Well we can’t very well do that if he can’t memorize his fucking lines in time, can we?”

“So salty, short stuff,” Smith says, and Ross is overcome with an urge to smack them both.

“Okay!” he interjects, before Trott can spit out whatever he wants to say next. “Take ten! Kim, will you get a script and run lines with Smith, please?”

The boom stick girl turns to give him an incredulous look. _Not in my job description_ , her face says, but the pleading look Ross gives her seems enough to sway her, and she slowly drops the stick to lean against the prop couch.

He flicks the camera off and stands, waving his hand dismissively. “Everyone, okay, everyone take ten.”

The crew disperses, slowly, and the discontented mumbling is audible. Everyone’s sick of staying late, running the same scenes over and over again, just to be interrupted by accusations and demands for lines. It’s worse than working with student actors, and god that is something Ross never thought he would’ve said.

Trott makes his way toward him once the room has emptied, but his expression is not nearly as apologetic as Ross would prefer.

“Great job, Trott. I’m so glad I’ve got you on board for this.”

“Hey, Ross, I’m not the problem. You know that as much as me. It’s your fault for hiring the greenest asshole I’ve seen this side of the Grand Canyon.”

“A serious medical condition,” Ross says. “Except Trott, as much as I hate to say it, you’re the fucking problem too. So he’s green, so what? You could be helping him, but instead you’re calling him out and being quite the prick, if I do say so myself.”

Trott smirks at him, stepping around the camera and dropping a hand on either armrest, effectively caging him into his director’s chair. A very Trott thing to do: trap him on what’s supposed to be his seat of authority.

“The day I help Alex Smith,” Trott says, with quiet certainty, “is the day he quits acting like a little bitch and asks for it.”

“Well, good,” Ross says, “that’s great. I’m glad you’re on my side. Glad you care about _quality_ , here.”

“Oh, Ross, of _course_ I care about quality. But I can’t make _him_ care.”

“I’m not so sure he doesn’t,” Ross protests. But Trott only gives him a knowing look.

“ _You_ were checking out his underwear spread, weren’t you?”

“Fuck you,” Ross says, but it sounds more like resignation than anything else.

~

Smith isn’t oblivious to the fact that Trott stays behind after everyone’s left. He can tell that the director and Trott know each other; how well, or for how long, he doesn’t know. All he does know is that it makes him uneasy. He’s really on shaky ground here, isn’t he?

The boom stick girl is looking at him with such an uninterested expression he can’t help but put on his most charming smile. Call him an attention whore, but -- well, that was probably accurate.

“Could you like, not do that thing with your face?” the boom stick girl - Kim - says. The disdain in her voice is tangible, sticking to Smith’s skin like cling wrap, and Smith pouts.

“So do you have a script?”

The look she gives him is nothing less than murderous.

~

Staring at Trott’s unimpressed face, Smith is having a hard time concentrating on anything but the annoyance lining Trott’s very being. If Smith had run into Trott on the street, he’d never have attempted to look at him, let alone speak to him.

And now? He was supposed to be in _love_ with him. Tough fucking luck. You could put a hundred people in his place right now, and they’d all agree on one thing: Christopher Trott is one unlovable motherfucker.

Uh.

Trott is staring at him expectantly now, and Smith’s sure he’s registered Trott’s lips moving, but for the life of him he can’t remember what he said. God fucking damn it.

“Line?”

And Smith’s treated to the sight of a lifetime as Trott’s face transforms from “a little annoyed” to “thirsty for blood”. His blood, in particular.

“We have been running this same fucking scene all fucking day and we’ve all just taken a break just for you so your precious little pea brain can try to wrap itself around two, count them, _two_ lines of dialogue and you’ve once again forgotten. Your. Lines?”

“That’s it!” the director snarls, his voice surprisingly cutting, even over the sound of Trott’s impotent rage. “We’re done for the day. Clear out.”

The staff hesitates, glancing around nervously. It’s not even lunchtime.

“You heard me!” Hornby snaps, and Smith turns and flees out of the back door.

~

He can’t remember ever being so angry.

He’s dealt with many up-and-comers over the years. Dreamers, not doers. Idealists who don’t understand that acting, good acting, is a tough fucking job.

But no one has ever made him want to tear someone apart with his teeth so much as Alex Smith.

Like, this is actual, murderous rage he’s currently suppressing.

Ross had slipped something into his hand downstairs, and now that Trott’s alone in the hotel hallway, he pulls it out of his pocket.

A room key. Of course. Ross is a very needy guy, most of the time, and he doesn’t handle stress as well as Trott.

Well. In this case, he probably is handling it better than Trott. But that’s just because he’s managed to hire someone who has -- within a week, mind you -- learned all of Trott’s buttons and how best to push them.

It’s only a floor up and down a hallway, and Trott slips by without any of the other crew seeing him. A good thing; he doesn’t want to have to deal with rumors. Let alone if it got out to the vultures; they’d have a fucking field day with that.

Chris Trott - famous method actor, generally considered the most uptight prick in the business - seen entering room of up-and-coming director Ross Hornby, after hours.

Yeah, not bloody likely.

And with a little digging, they could find that they’d gone to school together, and, well, the rest was history.

Trott slots the key card into the door and pushes it open without aplomb.

“Jesus tittyfucking christ,” Ross’ voice greets him, and Trott can sympathize. “An entire fucking day wasted. You’re such a twat. We could’ve come back from that if you hadn’t completely lost it.”

“I couldn’t have come back from it,” Trott says, shutting the door carefully behind him. “I’m still seething.” He rounds the corner to see Ross laying on his queen-sized bed, one hand covering his face, the other laying carelessly across his abdomen.

“He can’t actually be that bad, can he?” Ross asks, and Trott hesitates.

“I don’t know,” he says, truthfully. “I, uh, I did watch a couple of his more recent things and, I don’t know, I thought they were decent. You know, I was looking forward to this?”

Ross moves his hand so he can meet Trott eyes. “Of course you were,” he says, and his smile is sweet. “You’ve missed me, no matter how busy you’ve been.”

Trott rolls his eyes, but he’s having trouble suppressing his own smile.

Ross pats the bed beside him, and Trott climbs up, laying out on his back next to the taller man. Ross’ hand finds Trott’s, twining their fingers together, and Trott feels like he’s just nineteen again.

The silence is comforting, and Trott somehow manages to drowse, despite the fact that he can’t sleep in front of anyone. Ross’ steady breath is reassuring, his hand’s grip anchoring Trott in the too-large bed.

Eventually, Ross clears his throat and murmurs: “How can I thank you for staying?”

Involuntarily, Trott feels his eyebrow rise, even though Ross can’t see it. “How about a blast from the past?” he suggests.

Ross shifts onto all fours, letting go of Trott’s hand in favor of bracing himself against the bed. Trott opens his eyes to see the coy grin on Ross’ face. “A blow from long ago?”

Trott tries to scowl, he really does, but he doesn’t think he pulls it off. “Shut up and suck my dick,” he says instead.

Ross’ smile widens, showing off his bleached-white teeth (Hollywood takes a toll on them all, Trott remembers), and he dips his head down low.

The heat of Ross’ breath against his already rapidly-hardening dick is nearly too much, after so long, and instead of the desperate moan he wants to release, he bites his hand to keep Ross from the satisfaction.

It doesn’t matter anyway. Ross knows what he’s doing to him. He’s always known.

And when he finally releases Trott’s erection from his trousers and pants, the guttural groan that escapes Trott’s lips only causes him to chuckle.

And before Trott can register movement, all he can feel his overwhelming wet warmth and his back arches mindlessly, breath escaping him in a sudden gasp. He can feel Ross’ tongue stroking along the length of him, and the tight ring of his lips creating overwhelmingly wonderful pressure at the base of him.

It’s not going to take long, Trott can already tell. It’s been so long, and he’s already making little whining noises he can’t quite control. Ross knows how to bring him to pleasure quickly, after all these years, and it’s only moments later when Trott is hissing out a warning and shooting his load into Ross’ hot mouth.

And he collapses back against the bed, hot and sticky and still mostly dressed, shifting to allow Ross to tug his trousers and pants and shoes off in one quick move.

He blinks his eyes open to see Ross hovering over him once again, eyes dilated wild and expression keen. Though it’s never been their thing, Trott wraps his hand around the back of Ross’ neck and tugs his head down to plant a heady kiss on his lips, the salty taste of his own come not quite pleasant, but certainly interesting.

But all too quickly Ross is whimpering against his lips, and Trott’s reminded of the other man’s erection. So he lets go, shifting himself up onto his elbows. Ross shakes his head and drops his hands on Trott’s waist, tugging gently but insistently until Trott turns over onto all fours, tilting his head to glance back over his shoulder.

Ross rushes with his own jeans, undoing the zip and shoving his boxers out of the way to release his own erection, flushed the same pink-purple that Trott remembers, even after all these years. He rises up onto his own knees and grabs Trott’s hips in a desperate move, and Trott relaxes, allowing Ross to tug him back.

Ross’ breath is released in a shuddery groan as his erection presses up against Trott’s asscheeks. And Trott can’t help but tilt his hips forward just slightly, to allow Ross’ erection to brush against his entrance teasingly.

That’s all it takes, and Ross is rutting against Trott’s ass at a fervent pace, muttered curses escaping his lips in a near-constant stream.

Trott allows himself to enjoy this; the press of hard flesh against his entrance, the delightful animalian abandon in Ross’ movements. God, he’s missed this.

He’s just starting to feel new twinges of arousal when Ross’ hips lock against his and he feels the warmth of his come splash along his ass and balls, and he figures it’s for the best when Ross slumps his entire weight against his back.

“Gerrof, Ross,” Trott says, but his voice is fond.

Ross murmurs in vague compliance, rolling to his side and collapsing back against the mattress.

Trott considers the merits of being responsible - of helping Ross out of his clothes and cleaning himself up.

And then Ross mewls and outstretches an arm toward him, and Trott sighs and curls up against Ross’ warm side, breathing in the heady scent of sex in the air.

They have all day, anyway.


	2. Scales Unbalanced

Smith throws down his mobile and bites his lip.

No, he won’t give them the fucking satisfaction. This is his chance, goddamnit, his big chance, and he’s going to follow through.

I mean, plenty of actors hate their coworkers, right? It doesn’t necessarily mean the movie will be bad.

Although, not being able to film a simple scene kind of _does_ mean the movie will be bad.

He pushes himself to his feet and shrugs on a tee. If he’s still awake at fuckin’ -- he glances at the alarm clock on the nightstand -- fuckin’ 3:15 a.m., he may as well give in and drink enough caffeine to kill a horse. It’s the only thing that seems to keep him going these days.

He makes sure to tuck the room key into his pajama bottoms before shuffling his way down the hall barefoot, the coarse hotel carpet cool beneath his feet. They keep the air conditioning cranked way up out here, and he can feel goosebumps rising up and down his arms.

The machine gives out a too-loud screech as he approaches, and he stops in surprise. It seems okay, though; so he steps up to it and swipes his shiny new American Express card through the keypad.

He’s just pressing the button for his third Coke when he hears the distinct clank of a door latching shut.

Alex is aware he should really mind his own business, but usually has trouble listening to the logical parts of him that make those decisions. He steps away from the vending machine, which is whirring as it locates his drink, and peeks around the corner.

Well.

He can’t say he expected that, but at the same time he isn’t really surprised.

Christopher Trott, twat extraordinaire, leaving someone’s room wearing the same thing he’d been wearing back at 11:30 a.m.

And a jacket.

The jacket that was on the director’s back this very same morning.

He really should’ve known that they’re fucking.

Now what the hell is he supposed to do? If push comes to shove, he’s out, hands down. Hornby’ll choose with his dick over his … sense of pity?

God, he’s a mess. He darts back around the corner to grab his Cokes. That’ll help. Soon, he’ll be up for anything.

~

Smith’s squirming in his chair, irritated as usual by the dust of powder they’re dumping onto his face. He crinkles his nose up at the thick smell, reflecting that, out of all the parts of being an actor, this is one of the worst.

And just to make things even more annoying, Trott sits in the chair beside him, eyes shut and face peaceful. He seems asleep, almost - making up for last night, Smith thinks nastily. And then remembers that he himself hasn’t exactly had the most restful night.

“God, the bags under your eyes are getting bags of their own,” his makeup artist mutters. He pulls the brush away from Smith’s face for a moment, only to drop an icy ring finger beneath his eye and swipe at the skin.

“What the fuck! Warn me, will you!” Smith snaps.

He can _hear_ Trott’s smirk beside him.

“Sorry,” the makeup artist says, sarcasm oozing from his accented voice. “I’m going to touch your face now.”

“Too late now,” Smith mutters to himself. Trott’s makeup artist smirks, which seems bizarrely out-of-place on her friendly face.

Guess he’s just giving everyone the laughs now, isn’t he?

He settles back in his chair, closing his eyes except for a sliver. He won’t react again. He won’t give them the satisfaction.

“All done!” Trott’s makeup artist says, voice chipper and innocent-sounding, the slight lisp making her seem all the more youthful. Smith’s eyes are drawn toward the sound, and he watches as she pulls away to reveal Trott’s face, blemish-free and somehow … younger? Though the man can’t be more than a couple of years older than Smith himself.

“Thanks, Zoey,” Trott says, and for fuck’s sake, he actually sounds _grateful_. “I’ll see you in an hour or so, probably.”

She pats him on his arm. “Oh, don’t be so negative. Besides, I went overkill with the setting spray, you should be fine!”

“If you say so,” Trott says quietly, rising to his feet. “Thank Teep for me, will you? I never get a chance to see him by the time I’m awake.”

“Sure! He’ll love that!”

Trott smiles, and Smith feels an instinctive ray of panic (why, he can’t quite tell) at the expression. He’s never seen Trott’s face like that before, expression actually warm and smile sweet.

The way he’s supposed to look at Smith.

While filming, of course.

And Smith realizes just how far away they are from making even a halfway decent movie, and has to hold back a groan as Trott disappears from the makeup room.

~

Ross’ shoulders are more broad than he remembers. Last night, he hadn’t taken the time to notice. Now, though, as he walks up behind the taller man speaking aggrievedly into his phone, he can’t help but try to mentally compare the man before him and the boy he once knew.

Well, he’s sure he has changed over the years, too.

“So… there’s nothing we can do.” 

Ross sighs, shifting on his feet and running a hand through his hair. “Right. Well, let me know if things change.”

His hand drops, and he hangs up the call. Trott steps up and rests his hand on the taller man’s arm.

Ross jumps and looks down at him, expression startled. It doesn’t clear when he sees it’s Trott.

“What’s up?” Trott asks, suspicion edging his tone.

“Oh,” Ross says, and he blinks just a little too long. “Just gunning for some last minute bookings.”

Trott nods.

They both know he’s lying.

~

Ross is kind of impressed, but that’s only because the bar’s been set so low this past week.

Smith has apparently memorized his lines, this time, and in fact seems to be pulling this scene off convincingly. Then again, it’s not surprising he’s able to act desperate right now; Ross figures that despite his bravado, the mostly-green actor is probably petrified of Trott.

Well, with good reason.

Because Trott isn’t giving a single fucking inch. Granted, in a way it’s helping Smith’s acting, seeing as each time they run through the scene, his speech gets more slurred and attitude more desperate; but Ross knows that’s not why Trott is doing it, and goddamn it all he is going to smack the man first chance he gets.

“Please, won’t you listen to me!” Smith says, and really, Ross wishes Trott would.

“What makes you think I’m not?” Trott asks, far, far too casual.

“Cut!” Ross snaps. “Trott, c’mere!”

Trott turns to look at him, eyes wide and startled. As if he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

But he does walk up, straight up to Ross’ chair, and stays shut up while Ross whispers fervently at him.

“Trott, I don’t know what the fuck you’re trying to pull, but that man out there is trying. Would you at least meet him halfway?”

Trott raises an eyebrow, and says, in barely a murmur, “I thought I was.”

“You know goddamn well that’s not what you’re doing.”

“He’s gotta do more than just memorize his fuckin’ lines. He’s gotta show how much he wants it,” Trott hisses.

“Really? Really? You’re coming at me with that now? We’re in - we’re in dire straits, Trott, I can’t deal with you having a prima donna moment!”

The whole crew is doing their best to not look at them, at this point, all but whistling and staring at the ceiling. Ross almost feels embarrassed, but the budding anger in him is enough to keep his attention on track.

Trott rolls his eyes.

“You’re in love with him, all right, Trott? You have a lot of emotion invested in this fight. You’re not just gonna spit the words out like the speech you memorized for public speaking class. Everything he says hurts, and you want to make him understand that.”

“I know--”

“You say that Trott, but do you even? I know this isn’t exactly tried and true territory for you. Do you have any context you’re drawing from here, or are you just making it all up as you go along?”

Ross is going to regret that. He doesn’t right now, but _hell_ , he’s going to regret that.

Trott blinks, slowly. Smiles a dangerous smile. “Oh, Ross,” he says. “What are you trying to do? Elicit an emotional response? Engage my competitive nature?”

Ross wasn’t, actually, but it’s a fair theory.

Trott leans in, close, way too close for public, and whispers in his ear: “You little bitch. I’m doing this for _me_ , not for you.”

Then he turns and returns to his spot in front of Smith, who’s staring at his feet in an effort to avoid attention.

“Well?” Trott snaps, and Ross leans forward begrudgingly.

“From the top,” Ross says. “Ready? And - action!”

~

“Please,” Smith says, and for once he’s not thinking about the camera or the crew or the fact that it’s Trott he’s talking to. “Won’t you _listen_ to me!”

And Trott smiles, but it’s more of a baring of teeth. “What,” he says quietly, “makes you think that I’m not?”

“I never meant any of it-” Smith says, words tripping over each other in a jumbled mess. “I didn’t mean for you-”

“For me to find out?” Trott takes a step forward, eyes holding Smith’s captive. “For me to get hurt? Well too fucking bad, I’m hurt all right.”

The grand singular f-bomb they’re allowed. Trott didn’t emphasize it, just spat it out with the rest of his line. What a waste.

“I didn’t-”

Trott lunges forward and grabs his bicep. Smith jerks, trying to draw back. What the fuck, this isn’t in the script. Where the hell does he get off--!

Trott leans in close, and despite the height and size difference, Smith feels trapped, eyes widening and breath quickening with fear. “You’re pathetic,” Trott hisses, the exhale tickling Smith’s jawline. “I never want to see you again.”

And he lets go abruptly before turning and walking off set. He doesn’t stop walking, actually, straight off for the break room, and Smith’s left staring dumbfoundedly after him.

“Cut,” Ross says, and Smith feels dizzy as he’s drawn back to the present. “That’s a wrap, then. Lunchtime, everyone.”

~

There’s no knock on his door that night; it just opens with a quiet click.

“Trott,” Ross says, annoyance coloring his tone. “Don’t you know how to knock?”

“Should’ve thought about that before you gave me a key card,” Trott retorts.

“I’m not really in the mood,” Ross says, turning on his heel to face the smaller man.

He looks so much more tired than he did on set, which Ross knows was achieved by his admittedly stellar makeup team. He also looks angrier, but Ross is pretty sure that’s his own fault.

“Okay,” Trott says, in a voice that screams “this is not okay”. “So, when you need something from me, you’ll just drop something in my hands, a token, right, and that means it’s okay. But, if I need something from you, I’ve gotta wait around for your token? Is that how it’s going to work here?”

Ross sighs. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Do I? Because apparently I don’t know anything about these things, Ross. Why don’t you tell me? Inform me of the truth?”

Ross crosses his arms across his chest. “What? The truth about us?”

Trott leans back against the wall, crossing his own arms in response. “Yeah. The truth about us.”

Ross really wants to stop himself, but he wants to keep going even more.

“The truth about us, Chris, is that we’re ex-fuck buddies, and that’s about it.”

Trott nods, no discernable emotion on his face. “Figured as much. So, what, we fuck when you want it?”

Ross’ face is stony. “You can always say no.”

Trott laughs, bitterly. “Well that’s a fucking relief. I sure needed your permission for that one.”

Ross scowls. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Whatever,” Trott says, waving a dismissive hand at the other man. “I guess, hit me up then. Or not.” He stands and walks out the door without a glance back.

Oh, yeah. Ross is already regretting that one.


	3. Leverage

The knock on his door comes several hours later.

Is Trott so stubborn? That is, he’s stubborn, sure, but is this the kind of situation he’d stick it out, or give up? Ross thinks he’d give up, so as not to appear needy, but really, he hasn’t seen Trott for such a long time, and who knows how he’s changed in the interim?

The knocks sounds again, and oh, Ross is drunk.

Not mindlessly drunk, just pleasantly tipsy. He deserves it, after everything he’s been through today. Arguing with Trott is no one’s idea of a good time.

The person knocks for a third time, and Ross decides that whoever it is has earned his response. He stumbles to his feet, ignoring the world spinning, and goes over to open the door.

Oops, he forgot to look through the peephole, he realizes as the door swings open.

No, it’s not Trott. It’s Smith. Smith? What is he doing here? And … wearing boxers and … nothing else?

Er. He’s either too drunk for this, or not nearly drunk enough.

Smith steps inside, not bothering to wait for Ross to say anything. He stands close, deep blue eyes boring into Ross’ own, as he slowly pushes the door shut behind him.

Ross feels a flicker in his stomach that he fervently tells himself is not excitement.

“Hi, director,” Smith says, and he’s somehow made his voice sound husky. How has he made his voice so husky?

“Uh, hey, Smith.”

“I was thinking,” Smith says, taking a step forward.

Ross takes a step back.

“The nights can drag on pretty long, mate.”

Why isn’t he blinking? Smith continues to advance on him, deliberate step after deliberate step.

“I thought you might need…”

Smith rests his palm on Ross’ cheek.

“...a little _distraction_.”

Ross opens his mouth to respond, but before he can do so he’s overwhelmed with the taste of the other man’s mouth, his scruffy facial hair scratching pleasantly at Ross’ cheeks, and Ross is drawn into the moment against his will. He hears a faint moan, and wonders if it’s his, before deciding he doesn’t really care either way.

Then Smith bites his lip, and Ross remembers the alcohol in his bloodstream, rendering him sluggish and agreeable and, above all, foolish.

He yanks his mouth away and pants, “Unprofessional!” in a single breath. He feels ridiculous, but it’s the only word somersaulting around and around in his head.

Smith’s eyes narrow from a few centimeters away. “You don’t seem to have that issue with Trott.”

Not even the alcohol can dull the shock in his veins. “What!”

Smith licks his lips, eyes flickering down before darting back up to meet Ross’ eyes. And Ross is struck by the vulnerability there. “I don’t want to lose my job.”

Ross blinks, and blinks again. Wha -- how --?

“You don’t need to fuck me to keep your job!” he blurts out, tales of workplace discrimination and sexual harassment spinning around in his head. Christ, that’s the last fuckin’ thing he needs.

Smith blinks slowly, catlike. “Good,” he says, in a voice just above a whisper. Ross lets a sigh of relief escape his lips.

And then Smith leans in, lips a hair’s breadth away from his ear. “Anyway,” he murmurs throatily, “wanna fuck?”

Ross’ voice is little more than a croak. “I--”

“What,” Smith hisses, “is you boyfriend going to be jealous?”

“W-we’re not dating!” Ross says frantically, not sure why he’s protesting, not sure what the hell is going on.

“Oh.” Smith’s tongue darts out and caresses Ross’ ear, and the director shudders. “Just a ‘professional’ relationship, then?”

Before Ross realizes it, Smith pushes him back onto the room’s single armchair, leaning heavily on the armrests. “Just sit back and think of the film, eh?” Smith says, and Ross sucks in a breath that’s half-fearful, half-excited.

He feels like he’s in a nightclub, as Smith drops down onto his knees in front of him, sliding the palms of his hands up Ross’ sweatpant-clad legs. And as Smith tugs down his sweats and boxers despite Ross’ misgivings, Ross begins to wonder if Smith has “experience” in this particular brand of seduction.

For an untrained pretty boy like him, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise.

But Ross doesn’t really have time to wonder about Smith’s past for very long - the man closes his lips around Ross’ half-erect dick and hums. His eyes, wide, look up into Ross’; and while usually he’d find that sexy as all hell, he feels more self-conscious than anything. He tenses as Smith begins to move on him, and he throws his forearm across his face to hide from the other man’s piercing eyes.

A groan, low and loose, escapes him. That seems to encourage Smith, who leans in and begins moving over his erection in earnest. Ross throws his other hand up, tangling his fingers in his own hair.

Smith’s palm slides up his thigh and tucks underneath the bottom hem of his shirt to rest against Ross’ taut abdomen. Ross winces against the feeling, fighting with himself even now. God, what is he doing?

And god help him why is it so hot to think about how wrong this is?

All in all, it doesn’t take long.

~

Fuck, he’s so fucking hot. And Smith is so turned on right now. But really, the fact that the director’s still hiding his face and his neck seems flushed an unnatural bright red seems to indicate that it’s probably best for him to leave.

So he does, not really as concerned as he should be about who might be out in the hallway. Luckily, there’s no one, although to be quite honest he would’ve been amused to see the look on someone’s face.

‘Cause he is hard, and parading around in a pair of boxers.

Once he pushes his way back into his room, he just barely waits for the door to swing shut before he collapses against it and shoves his boxers down.

Hornby is fit. Jesus. Smith tries to picture what he’d look like naked, stretched out along a king-sized bed and - and is Smith actually setting up a whole fantasy scenario here?

Okay, yeah, fuck it, he is. Hornby’s spread out along the bed, flushed bright pink and looking as nervous as he did when Smith turned up. And Smith’s leaning against the bed, looking down at him as he begins wincing and squirming, and Smith doesn’t even have to touch him because --

Yeah, okay, because Trott’s there, because they’re fuck buddies, right?

Nothing as hot as the taboo, he guesses. Trott meets his eyes and glares daggers at him, eyes sharp and narrow, even as he drops kisses along Ross’ hipbone. And why has Trott even agreed to be here with him and Ross?

Well, Trott drops down to take Ross’ erection in his mouth, and Smith realizes, duh, Smith has fucking got _dirt_ on them. So of course he blackmailed Trott…

He … blackmailed Trott?

More on that later. He’s close.

So he drops his hand on the back of Trott’s head and pushes him forward until he’s uncomfortably close to gagging and he’s staring Smith down over Ross’ pale thigh and Smith comes, hard, making the door rattle slightly as he convulses against it.

Fuck. That was hot as shit.

~

The next morning, Smith finds Trott in the downstairs hallway outside the cafeteria. Complimentary breakfast. He hadn’t particularly expected Trott to take advantage of such a plebeian activity, but here he is.

“Trott,” he says, with enthusiasm that the shorter man obviously finds bewildering.

Right, not everyone can hear what he’s thinking. He jogs up beside Trott and throws a familiar arm over the other’s shoulder. His eyes widen before his face smooths out into a neutral expression.

“What the fuck,” he says.

“Trotty,” Smith says. “Listen, I was thinking that you could help me out a bit, actor to actor, you know, with some of the memorizing and the reciting and stuff.” He hopes his blasé attitude is as annoying as it feels.

Trott extricates himself from Smith’s arm, and turns to give Smith a stony expression. “And why would I do that?”

Smith leans in, too close, close like he’d gotten to Ross last night, and he can tell Trott feels it. “You and Hornby aren’t as subtle as you think you are.”

Trott’s eyes don’t widen. He doesn’t gasp. He doesn’t react in any way, and that’s how Smith knows he’s caught.

“So, I don’t know, I figure you might wanna lend a pal a hand.”

Smith’s still got the grin plastered onto his face. Check and mate, he thinks to himself as he watches Trott’s eyes narrow.

“You’re an asshole,” Trott says in a dangerously low tone.

“Never said I wasn’t, mate,” Smith says, cheerfully.

~

“Your opening line,” Trott orders, and Smith squirms.

Okay, maybe he hadn’t thought this through. He and Trott are sitting in the hotel’s cafeteria, crowd of tourists around them, who for the most part are oblivious to who is seated there.

“Um,” Smith says, and Trott gives him a patronizing look.

Nothing for it. Smith takes in a deep breath and leans forward, putting his elbows on the table and casting his gaze onto the tabletop. “I grew up here,” he says softly. “I can’t really remember my early childhood. I was as American as any other kid, just couldn’t get rid of the accent.”

“They say,” Trott responds thoughtfully, “that you get your accent from the children around you, not from your parents. I wonder why not for you.”

Smith sits up abruptly and leans back in his chair. “I--!”

Trott rests his chin in his hand, watching Smith impassively. His eyes are following Smith, though, seem to catch on every tick and movement. How did he even do that?

Smith feels it as he loses his place, words stuttering over his tongue in a chaotic jumble, and Trott sighs and leans back.

“Close,” Trott says, and Smith blanches. That’s the nearest thing to a compliment he’s gotten from Trott, and it practically stings. “It’s an easy fix. You lose concentration when you move, and sometimes when I move. That’s because you probably memorized your lines sitting down, or pacing, or whatever. Not matching the action in the scene.”

Smith blinks. Trott waits for him, so he nods slowly in agreement.

“Your opening line to your response, what is it?”

“I didn’t realize that was how it worked,” Smith says.

“And the rest?”

“I don’t know. I just always had my accent. I remembering them making fun of me as early as primary.”

“Okay,” Trott says, and grabs a napkin. He scribbles a line onto it in sloping cursive and passes it over to Smith. “Tuck the end of that underneath your plate.”

Smith does so, and glances down. “I didn’t realize that was” the napkin said.

“Okay, from the top,” Trott says, and Smith is startled for a moment when he remembers Ross. Oh yeah, your _director_ whose _dick_ you sucked last night. He swallows nervously.

Trott’s eyes are focused on him, and Smith realizes suddenly that they’re not narrowed, like they usually are. His face is relaxed, interested, and his eyes are alight with - curiosity? That’s not quite it.

But he’s intrigued.

He actually looks … like he’s having a good time?

He starts again, and Trott responds, and then he leans back in his chair to - um --

Trott’s eyes dart downward as the rest of his face stays motionless. Smith’s eyes follow his of their own accord, and he sees the napkin.

Oh, right.

He reads out the bit and then continues with surprising ease through the next line, and then Trott responds, and he does, and before he knows it they’ve run through the whole damn scene and has he even taken his eyes off of Trott at any point? He knows the scene’s a good ten minutes long, even though it certainly didn’t feel that way, but have his eyes been focused on Trott’s for ten solid minutes?

And… have Trott’s eyes been focused on him for ten solid minutes?

“So you’re not as useless as you seem,” Trott says once the scene is done, and Smith blinks frantically, trying to reestablish his world order.

When he feels confident in his vision, he turns his eyes on Trott to see the other standing and downing the last dregs of what must be room-temperature tea. “See you on set,” the shorter man says impassively, and he turns to go.

Smith wants to call out after him, but he bites down on his lip and lets the man disappear into the hallway before taking another dispassionate bite of cold toast.

~

“Please,” Ross is murmuring against his lips.

He’s still angry, boiling underneath the surface of him. Trust Ross to do this. Trust Ross to make a huge fucking deal about how this all meant nothing, then to turn right the fuck around and start begging less than 24 hours later.

Fuck Ross. And fuck Smith too. Fuck the rest of the staff and all their significant glances. This isn’t a joke. None of this is a fucking joke.

He can’t believe Smith would actually _blackmail_ him. All things considered, though, he probably got away with something easy. Who knows what else Smith’d think to ask for.

And now Ross, begging and whining and pushing his whole body against Trott. No, damn it.

Trott pulls away abruptly. “We do this my way or we don’t do it at all,” he snaps.

Ross nods, pitifully, and leans his weight onto Trott like an overenthusiastic dog. Trott drops a hand on the taller man’s shoulder and pushes him away.

Ross sways on his feet, but does as Trott wants.

“Take your clothes off,” Trott says, and Ross does as ordered.

Trott waits, allowing his eyes to scan Ross’ body, taking in the faint lines of muscles and bones even as Ross’ erection grows. That’s the one place he _doesn’t_ look; he traces Ross’ shins and his ribcage and his pecs but doesn’t bother looking at the area vying most for his attention.

“Hands and knees,” Trott snaps after a few interminable minutes, and Ross practically leaps to do so.

Trott yanks off his clothes, pushing past Ross to sift through his nightstand drawer. He finds the lube without a problem and circles back around behind Ross, ignoring the other’s eyes.

He squirts a generous helping of lube into his hand, rubs his hands together for a moment to warm it. Then he lowers his left hand and his fingers begin to play at Ross’ entrance.

Ross whines and shifts, and Trott pulls his hand away. Ross subsides, and stays still as Trott’s hand returns to his entrance. He quickly stretches him and then gives his own erection a couple of harsh tugs before lining himself up behind Ross.

He can feel Ross’ muscles taut, desperately trying to hold still, as he pushes his way slowly into him. Despite himself, his breath escapes him in a rush at the feel of Ross’ heat around him. He doesn’t bother to suppress his instincts, jerking his hips forward against Ross’ ass. He drops his lube-covered palms onto Ross’ back and begins to thrust in earnest.

It feels good, pushing into the larger man like this, knowing how desperately he’s wishing for release. His slick fingers unable to grab purchase against Ross’ back, sliding along as fluidly as his erection within him.

Ross’ weight shifts underneath him, and Trott watches as the man’s arm goes up, trying to reach his own erection. Trott drops both hands on the man’s shoulder and pushes until he falls against the ground.

Face against the carpet, Ross looks back at him, eyes wide and more than a little desperate. Trott grabs at Ross’ hips, pulling him back against him, and continues to thrust as he watches Ross flinch and whine.

“My way,” Trott mutters grimly.

Ross winces, and whimpers, and Trott comes hard into the other man.

~

The room is silent. Trott disappears into the bathroom to clean himself up, leaving Ross where he is, crouched on the floor.

Trott tries to convince himself he’s not feeling sick to his stomach, to very little avail. He turns the faucet on full blast to wet the washcloth, then turns it off and wipes himself down, quickly, efficiently.

His throat’s tight, and he can’t hear anything from the room.

Ross isn’t jacking it like he’d expect, then. He swallows nervously and yanks on his boxers before rounding the corner for the rest of his clothes.

Ross is sitting up against the side of the bed, knees drawn to his chest and arms wrapped around his knees. His eyes, icy and too wet to be innocuous, fix themselves on Trott as soon as he comes into sight.

“I’m sorry,” Ross says, and Trott shuts his eyes for a moment.

“No, I’m sorry, Ross. Do you --” He takes a step toward Ross, but Ross holds his hand up to stop him.

“No, it’s - I’m fine. Look, Trott, I, uh--”

Trott looks around for his clothes, picking up each article one by one, not even glancing at Ross.

“I didn’t mean what I said, Trott.”

Trott begins pulling on his clothes. He’s silent as he dresses, and the whole room is quiet except for the rustle of fabric and Ross’ gentle breaths.

It’s not until he’s fully dressed that he speaks. He looks Ross directly in the eyes, vulnerable as the taller man is, and says, “I know, but the fact that you said it is enough.”

And he turns on his heel and leaves.


	4. Practice Makes?

Trott’s sitting in the chair.

He’s sitting in the chair that Ross sat in while Smith sucked him off.

Smith can’t really imagine a more awkward scenario than the one he’s currently facing.

Ross stands near the bed, seemingly oblivious to Smith’s discomfort, holding a copy of the script in his hands. He fiddles with the edges of the pages as he speaks, and altogether Smith’s having trouble keeping his eyes on Ross’ face like they’re supposed to be.

“...so we’ll be doing this every once in a while.”

“And how often is that?” Trott asks flatly.

Ross levels an annoyed look at Trott. “As often as I think it’s needed.”

Trott scoffs, and leans back in the chair, spreading his legs in expression of his disdain. Which is really not what Smith needed.

What the hell is the matter with him, recently?

“What, to keep your spats out of public eye?” Smith says. “Can you stop making such a huge deal out of shit?”

Trott shoots him a warning glare, but Ross seems to take it in stride. He narrows his eyes, and snaps, “Really, and you think you’re one to talk?”

Oh, Smith realizes. Trott doesn’t know that Ross knows that I know. And vice versa. Should I tell them?

Also, yeah, Ross has got a point there. So he shrugs and leans back and decides petulantly, no, he won’t tell them. Let them stew in silence and fear. ‘Sides, if they both knew, they might come up with a plan together. Or something.

“Fine. What, O great director, do you want us working on, exactly?”

“The more useful question is ‘What _don’t_ you need to work on?’,” Ross says. “Believe me, it’s a short list.”

“If you’re finished taking cheap shots, can we get to work?” Trott says in an aggrieved tone.

Smith can’t help but comment. “What, you got somewhere to be?”

Trott gives him a supremely unimpressed look before turning his eyes on Ross.

The director’s stood with his lips pursed, eyes flitting across the script in his hands. His tongue darts out to lick his lips as he turns yet another page, and Smith has to actively concentrate on not blushing.

“We haven’t worked on any of the more - more romantic scenes.” Ross’ eyes move above the line of the script, focusing on Trott’s and Smith’s in turn. Smith doesn’t have to look at Trott to see his own expression of disgust mirrored. “Look,” Ross says with a frustrated little sigh, “we’ll get to them eventually so we may as well start practice now, all right?”

Smith holds his hands up in a “don’t-look-at-me” gesture. “All right, mate, lay off. Jesus.”

Ross flips the script in his hands with skilled fingers, and hands the open booklet to Smith. “Take a second to review,” Ross says calmly, and turns to Trott. “It’s approximately sixteen pages in, the awkward--”

Smith sees Trott flap his hand dismissively at Ross, and has to stop himself from gaping. Literally, was that all it took for him to figure out which part of the script it was? Like, did he have it fully memorized? Just like that?

What the actual fuck was this man, though?

~

Ross sees Smith staring incredulously at Trott over the script he’s supposed to be reviewing, and despite how resigned he feels he almost manages to crack a smile. He used to think Trott must have superpowers, or something; that was before they’d become close, and he’d learned a little bit more about the kind of person Trott was.

Namely, a perfectionist. Dangerously so.

Ross levels Smith an even look. “Do you want the script for the first runthrough?”

He watches the other man’s eyes, framed by long lashes (not unlike Trott’s in that respect), as he throws a nervous glance at Trott before returning to the director’s eyes. He nods, slowly, as if he’s afraid of being reprimanded, and Ross smiles tightly before taking a step back.

“I’ll try to stay out of your way, okay? We’re just doing practice, no need to have it perfect now. I’ll only give direction if I feel it needs it.” And with that he sits down on the bed and waits.

The first line is Trott’s. Ross chose that scene on purpose, hoping beyond hope that it’ll make Trott just slightly more cooperative.

It doesn’t do much.

Well. Trott does look like he’s trying, maybe, but the way he stutters whenever he makes eye contact with Smith seems to undermine whatever effort he’s put into it. Ross is used to the smooth, natural flow of words from Trott’s lips; and he realizes, again, how bizarre it is to hear Trott talking this way. Even in character.

“You’re nothing like the last,” he says, eyes focused on the patterned hotel carpet.

Smith turns big worried eyes on Ross, and he blinks to realize, what? Trott skipped a line?

No, he’s broken off mid-paragraph. He’s still looking down, chewing on his bottom lip.

Ross waits. He’ll admit he’s a little curious to see what Smith will do.

“Trott, mate?” Smith murmurs, and his voice sounds strangely gentle.

Trott stands, shrugs, and turns dark eyes on Ross. “I need coffee,” he says, in a tone that brooks no argument.

Ross holds his eyes for a moment before sighing, dropping his head to rest in his hand. He says quietly, “All right, just fuck off. We’ll try this again some other time.”

And both Trott and Smith disappear out the door.

~

“Look, to be honest, with the work Trott’s been doing, I don’t even know if he’s the better investment.”

The line is fuzzy, but Ross can still hear Turps’ sharp intake of breath. “Are you serious? That’s half our marketing strategy gone! What the hell?”

“I know, but at least Smith seems to have experience in this genre - you know as well as I do that Trott’s never starred in a romantic lead, and it’s showing.”

“So? They aren’t gonna know that till they’re in the theater!”

“Turps! I’m not having my first film tank because we made a hasty casting decision! Do you really think I’d be able to recover? From being the film that ruined Chris Trott’s career?”

“I’d say ‘ruined’ is taking it a bit far…”

“I don’t think so.”

“So then, what’s your suggestion, hot stuff?”

Ross sighs. “I think I’ll need to talk to Trott. Maybe see if he… see what he thinks.”

“Oh, sure, that’ll show him.”

“I just need to know if he’s capable of doing it.”

And Ross hangs up while Turps is still protesting.

It’s not long until Trott comes back, sliding the key card into the door quickly and opening the door without aplomb. Ross is standing, facing the blank-faced T.V. with a look of utter concentration on his face. At least, he feels the tug on the corner of his lips and on his brow which indicates a serious expression.

Trott rests his hand on Ross’ forearm, and the director feels exhausted. God damn it all, how in the hell has everything become so complicated so quickly?

“All right, mate?” Trott asks, and Ross feels almost like his heart is breaking.

“Yeah,” he breathes, quiet enough that his voice is unaffected by the emotion buried within him.

Trott leans in, resting his head on Ross’ upper chest, and Ross’ hand comes up of its own accord to stroke through Trott’s hair.

“It’s been a long day,” Trott murmurs, voice muffled by Ross’ shirt.

Ross drops a kiss onto the crown of Trott’s head, and feels Trott nuzzle gently against his chest.

It feels like they’re together, like they’re boyfriends, and Ross tries to grab a hold of that thought before it becomes a flight of fancy. But he’s never been good at that, and now he’s thinking about somewhere else, perhaps another universe, where things aren’t so damn confusing and they can just be happy and in love.

Not that they are in love.

Ross was pithy when he said it, but there was some truth to his accusation: he’s never seen Trott be the slightest bit romantic. Not when it comes to longing, not when it comes to caring, and certainly never when it comes to Ross.

So that’s enough of a reality check.

But, Ross knows that if there’s one thing Trott hates, it’s liars. And even after all this, after everything that’s happened, Ross doesn’t want to be someone Trott hates.

“Trott, mate.”

“Mhmm?”

“I have something I should tell you. I…”

Trott pulls away, and Ross tastes regret so bitterly he can hardly bear it.

~

Ross looks upset, and that only makes Trott more nervous.

God, what the hell is it now? Why can’t they just have one moment of peace?

“I was on the phone. They’re looking into options - it can’t go on like this, Trott.”

Trott sucks in an angry breath and tries not to yell. Ross’ eyes are pleading, imploring him to understand. And he can’t say he’s surprised.

So what’s making him so upset?

“We’ve tried so many different methods, and either you or him is going to have to go.”

Defeat. That’s what he’s feeling. Bitter, sudden defeat. Death tolls.

But Ross is only doing what’s best for the film. So Trott swallows, and nods once, slowly.

“That’s, um, that’s not all,” Ross says, and shifts on his feet. “I, um, I sort of -- Smith and I, rather --”

Trott feels his eyes widen and he clamps his teeth down before anything can escape his lips. What, he’s not sure. He was only - he was joking when he said --

“I mean, not that it really. You know, we never said we -- I mean, of course not. I just thought I should tell you, well, in case of, of anything.”

Like. Fucking. Hell.

Like fucking hell Ross was just telling him this in case of - what, VD? Is that what he was suggesting? Like fucking _hell_ , Trott knows he’s careful, he knows he’d never -- and if so, why the fucking hell was he telling him now? Why now? Only half a moment ago Trott was resting against him, relaxed and - and _trusting_ , and now Ross is standing here shattering the illusion and reminding him, above all, that he is _alone_. He is always alone, no matter what happens, and Ross is fucking talking _again_.

“I didn’t want to do this, but, you know.”

What? Didn’t want to fuck Smith? Didn’t want to fire one of them and trash the month’s worth of work they’ve done? Didn’t want to tell Trott? Wanted to _lie_ to him?

Trott’s heart jumps in his chest and he feels sick, a little. Perhaps throwing up would make him feel better. But he knows from experience that he’s no good inducing vomiting. The harder he tries, the farther he gets from vomiting. When he needs to lose weight, he has to avoid eating. He can’t make himself vomit.

Ross’ mouth is moving again, and when he pauses, Trott shrugs. He’s starting to feel his ears ring, and he’s done listening to Ross.

So he opens his mouth, and some words come out. Ross nods and then Trott is able to leave the room.

Trott walks down the hallway. His legs are moving slowly. He doesn’t know what to do with his arms, so he forgets about them.

Trott knocks on the door and it opens instantly. He looks up at the man, who stares back at him. He opens his mouth but Trott takes a step forward and moves his hand forward.

Trott opens his mouth and some words come out.


	5. Method Acting

Out of all the people Smith can imagine appearing at his door that night, Trott’s the last among them, somewhere behind the boom stick girl who usually looked like she wanted to kill him and the catering guy who liked to flip him off when no one was watching.

But there he is, and the expression on his face is, Smith has to admit, unnerving. No, he’s not angry, like usual; he doesn’t even look perturbed. He looks … empty, expression vague and slightly unfocused.

Then he blinks, dark eyes darting to Smith’s own, and a bright and unearthly smile spreads across his face.

“Daniel!” he says, and Smith blanches at hearing his character’s name spoken so enthusiastically. “There you are!”

Smith watches him for any sign of sarcasm, of irony, but Trott’s expression reads pure excitement and not even a little of his characteristic annoyance.

Fuck, he’s a good actor.

Well, two can play at that game.

Smith smiles one of his most charming smiles back at Trott, and says, “Here I am, Adam, at your service.”

And Trott’s expression isn’t short of glee as he launches himself forward and wraps his arms around Smith’s middle. “Good! I missed you!”

Smith’s arms fly up, hovering somewhere around Trott’s head, confusion and fear paralyzing him. What exactly is Trott playing at? What is this? Why is he here?

He gathers enough of his wits to mutter, “Hey, Tr- um, Adam, mind if I shut the door?”

Trott pulls back and gives him a toothy grin coupled with an over-the-top eyebrow wiggle. “ _Well_ , Dan, if you insist.”

The emphasis is not on the name, despite Smith’s near break from character. Smith swallows nervously, trying to keep his eyes on Trott even as he moves swiftly to shut the door to his room.

And Trott’s eyes follow him as well, pleased and knowing.

It's absurd what his eyes can do to Smith.

"So," Smith says. He shuffles back toward Trott, trying to disguise his nervousness as restlessness.

"So," Trott says, coyly.

"How, um, how have you been?" Great. Just fantastic. He's grasping for straws here. What the hell would they talk about? He's at a loss.

"Oh, Dan, you don't have to play so coy, baby."

Baby? _Baby?_ What is this? What the fuck is Trott playing at?

“Nuh - um,” Smith says eloquently.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to think of anything else to say, because Trott choose this moment to rest a palm heavily on Smith’s chest and lean in until their mouths are just a hair’s breadth away.

“You don’t have to say anything, babe,” Trott whispers, and Smith reflects that he should feel angry at being called that without permission. He doesn’t. Just confused, and way too aroused, given the circumstances.

And then Trott’s lips, soft, capture his own.

Smith’s heart leaps, because Trott’s kissing him like their characters would kiss: slow, warm, and reassuring. It’s devastating, how gentle his hands have become and how sweet his tongue is as it strokes Smith’s lips. And Smith breathes in sharply and tries desperately to remember the smarmy bastard of the daytime.

Trott pulls back and blinks once, slowly, his warm brown eyes latching onto Smith’s and Smith thinks, distantly, that Trott himself doesn’t seem to remember the smarmy bastard of the daytime.

There’s no point fighting, because he’s already given in. Trott’s palm strokes down his chest, and he smiles even as Smith struggles to slow his uneven breaths.

“Wanna make love, baby?” Trott murmurs, and the only thing that comes out of Smith’s mouth is a whimper.

He’s on his back on the bed before he can blink, Trott’s hands running restlessly along the lines of his body. The glancing touches and Trott’s eyes - it’s all too much so she shuts his eyes and takes in a deep, unsteady breath.

And he feels Trott’s fingers on his shirt, unbuttoning it from the top, slowly, deliberately. Stroking along his bare chest. The heat of Trott’s lips against his navel.

Goddamnit, he can’t just lay here doing nothing.

He sits up abruptly, catching one of Trott’s wrists in his hand and looking down at the face, that stupid angular insufferable face. Smith pulls Trott’s wrist and the other man rises to his feet, dropping a hand on either side of Smith.

Their lips touch, rougher this time, Smith questing, pushing. For what? He didn’t really know.

But Trott obliges, leaning in and accepting every harsh nip, pressing back just as fiercely. Smith pushes up, his bare chest bumping against Trott’s clothed one briefly, and he tugs Trott gently around until they’ve switched places, Trott leaning back against the bed and Smith half-leaning onto it.

Trott is loose and pleasant, and Smith wants more. So he quickly flicks the buttons of the smaller man’s flannel shirt, tugging it off of him. And Trott blinks his eyes, almost bashful, as Smith leans back to look at him properly.

Pale. Thinner than either him or Ross.

His eyebrow’s quirked and his lips are set in a faint smile. He looks confident, in a way that seems incongruous with his usual attitude.

Is he … still in character? Smith’s beginning to think that Trott’s way more messed up than he had imagined.

But he tilts his head to the side, curiously, and Smith’s reminded that he’s bizarrely, incredibly, irresistible.

It only takes a few more moments to strip Trott completely, the smaller man compliant and coy even as he’s rendered naked and Smith stands, still wearing jeans and most of shirt. He shrugs off the shirt, quickly, before dropping down to his knees and, without really thinking about it, wrapping his lips around Trott’s half-erect cock.

Trott squirms and Smith gives it his best, trailing his tongue along the side of him, tracing the slit and tasting the precum gathering there. Trott bucks his hips at that, and Smith’s eyes fly up to meet the other man’s eyes.

Trott’s been watching him; Smith sees in the way his eyes are focused on him but glazed over. And really, Smith should be used to this. Is used to this. But the look on Trott’s face ... 

He can’t really think about it. So he shuts his eyes and pulls back, lapping along the slit one last time before straightening.

His jeans and pants are off in a matter of moments, and he’s all but pounced on Trott on the bed, feeling the length of his body pressed up against the other man. Their lips lock, fervent again, as Smith ruts against Trott’s eager movement.

He doesn’t have to look at Trott’s expression anymore, and he can concentrate on the steady press of flesh against flesh and yes, that feels so good after all this masturbation that he can hardly stand it.

Trott still comes first, contorting against him and mouth opening into an involuntary “oh”. Smith takes advantage, tongue invading Trott’s mouth and hips jerking into Trott’s own erratically-moving ones.

Then he rolls onto his back, and feels no small measure of chagrin set in. What the fuck - did he just get off to humping his coworker like some kind of teenager? Jesus, that’s impressive.

He doesn’t move as he hears Trott get up and pad quietly into the bathroom. Doesn’t open his eyes as he hears the water running and the sound of movement. Doesn’t stir as he hears Trott getting dressed, and most certainly doesn’t twitch when Trott presses a chaste kiss to his unmoving lips.

He hears the sound of the lightswitch, and Trott’s voice murmuring: “G’night, love,” before the door swings open and latches shut again.

Then he sits up. And the only thought he can manage, running around and around in his head: what the fuck.

What the fuck.

~

Smith can’t quite stand it, those eyes watching him so closely. He thought Trott’s narrowed look of disdain was bad? Try wide affection tracking your every move.

He reminds himself with every step, every breath, that this is in character. Trott’s not called him “Smith” since, well, since before the run through with Ross yesterday. So he’s fully dedicated to the role.

And that’s fine. It’s not like Smith would want affection from the _real_ Trott anyway.

But when they break for lunch he can’t deny that his heart is pounding as he watches Trott choose to join him. Not Ross, stood by the camera with a look of what can only be described as defeat. Ross, whose eyes, too, track Smith with every goddamn step he takes.

Is he … is he the bone being tossed between them? Owning him is a show of superiority?

Not that it matters. Because Smith’s realized ever so clearly, he can’t say no to either of them. Not even close.

Trott pouts at Smith from about three centimeters away, and Smith suppresses a groan. “What?” he says, in a voice a little less than kind.

“C’mon mate, gimme a bite.”

Smith looks down at his sandwich, feeling way more confused than he ought in this situation. An innocent enough request, right? I mean, sharing a sandwich isn’t exactly … erotic …

Smith holds the sandwich out but instead of taking it, Trott wraps his hands around Smith’s and leans in, biting out of the sandwich while it’s still in Smith’s hand. And with the way he’s looking up at Smith, maintaining eye contact, Smith takes back what he said about erotic. And for fuck’s sake, this is getting so ridiculous.

“Jeez!” he hisses, jerking his hand back, but Trott only smiles at him.

He looks down at his sandwich as Trott leaves in the direction of the tea, and feels really pathetic as he decides, no, he can’t manage to eat it after Trott’s show.

So he puts it back down on his plate.

He scans the room and his eyes just happen to land on Ross and, Jesus, what is this messed up love triangle? How the hell did he get involved in this? Ross is staring at Trott with the saddest puppy-dog eyes Smith’s ever seen, and Smith feels either like throwing up or just laughing at the absurdity of it all.

He follows Ross’ gaze, though, and sees Trott chatting to the boom stick girl with a bright smile on his face. Suddenly, hauntingly, feels his own face mirroring Ross’.

Fuck this. Fuck all of this.

He is not _fond_ of Trott. He doesn’t even _like_ Trott. Trott is an egotistical prick, a prima donna to the first degree, and above all, he hates Smith.

Or.

He might be in character now, but Smith’s seen him be kind before. He’s been kind with the staff, with the makeup crew. Smith’s seen him look at Ross with respect, especially early on. Before all of … this.

So … what. Is Trott’s attitude Smith’s fault?

Smith huffs out a breath. It’s not his problem if Trott’s a whiny little bitch.

~

He should be happy.

He should be totally fucking ecstatic.

He should be jumping from joy and screaming hallelujah.

He’s not, of course.

Yeah. Yeah, the quality of the scenes they’ve done today has fucking skyrocketed. Yeah, they’ve finally managed to shoot several of the romantic scenes, with none of the issues from yesterday’s attempt.

But. What exactly does that mean?

Trott’s eyes rest easily on Smith, lit up, glowing from the inside. Happy. In love. It seems.

And. And Ross knows that Trott’s never been that way before.

Never felt that way before.

So why is he finding it so suddenly easy?

There’s only one real answer, isn’t there?

Trott is looking at Smith that way, like he’s in love with Smith, because he is.

In love with Smith.

~

Ross watches Trott follow Smith after the day’s done, into the elevator and presumably, to Smith’s room.

Ross tries not to think about it. He tries so hard that for a moment, he can’t hear Rythian calling him.

He turns, finally, to see the makeup artist standing awkwardly by his elbow. “Hmm?” he murmurs, unsure of his voice.

“Oh! Eh, Trott left this in the trailer. I wasn’t sure where to find him..?” Rythian allows his voice to trail off, and Ross realizes his chance.

For what? Um, something.

So Ross holds out his hand. “Don’t worry, I can bring it to him.”

A look of relief crosses Rythian’s face. “Good, thanks.”

Ross looks at the key card Rythian hands him as Rythian turns and jogs back into the makeup trailer.

A sharp pain, wholly unexpected, burrows into his gut.

It’s the key card to his room. The one he’d given Trott.

_Oh._

~

He sits up. He blinks. His head is spinning around and around.

There’s another man here. He has brown hair.

His hands move slowly, like they’re stuck in jam, and he narrows his eyes with concentration as he watches his fingers wiggle. One, two, three, four, five.

The other man makes a snuffling noise.

He gets up. He looks around. The clock says 3:57. The red lines blur as he watches the numbers. He blinks. The clock says 3:58.

He needs to go. Somewhere. To where he has things.

Dutifully, he shuffles around, picking up his underwear, some jeans, a shirt, tugging them on with slow and deliberate movements.

He finds a little card in the jeans pocket, and the card has a number.

He stumbles his way out the door. He’ll go find the number.


	6. Rx

The water pouring down onto him is hot, and it stings. But he likes it this way. It loosens him up, makes him feel easy and calm. Lighting up his skin so it’s bright red and burning.

He doesn’t know if he knows the room, but it seems familiar, perhaps. Like a … like deja vu. At least, he feels like he knows how much shampoo to use and not to use the conditioner, although why he couldn’t say.

Finally he twists the knob to the water off and steps out of the shower. The water runs off of him in rivulets and he watches it, almost hypnotized by the show. And then a shiver passes through his body, shaking him from head to toe, and he pulls the towel off of the rack beside him.

Wrapped in the fluffy towel, he shuffles out of the bathroom and to the room’s window, overlooking a gray-lit street. He watches one man go by in a suit, and then a woman.

He licks his lips, and he thinks about coffee.

He thinks he would like a coffee.

He drops the towel and goes to the closet, digging through the clothes he doesn’t recognize. It’s beginning to dawn on him that he should be worried, but he’s not. He’s quite calm.

He picks out some pieces that appeal to him: some soft, well-worn jeans and a couple of bright shirts. Finding boxers is a little more of a chore, until he realizes they’ve been left in the suitcase half-tucked underneath the bed.

Then, with careful movements, he pulls the clothing on.

They fit him. He’s not surprised. They look like they should fit him. He just doesn’t remember buying them. Or owning them.

He doesn’t want to bother with that now. He wants some coffee.

He remembers the little card with the number, and tucks it in his pocket. He’s almost out the door when he remembers about other little cards, cards with money that he needs. So he digs around until he finds a wallet. It’s brown leather and soft in his hands, so he slips it into his back pocket. It fits well, like it’s meant to.

And he steps out of the room and makes his way out.

~

The barista smiles at him, and he bares his teeth in a smile. He’s not sure, but he doesn’t think he’s done it right; the barista stops smiling and turns away. His mouth closes, hiding his teeth, and he ponders where he should sit in the empty cafe.

Outside it is still overcast, wet and grey and nearly empty. A man walks by quickly, his coat collar turned up against the wind. He reaches up to his own neck, but only the outside shirt has a collar, and it won’t stay up. The fabric is too soft. Soft like jelly? No.

A noise draws his attention and his coffee is waiting, alone, on the counter. He can see faint steam rising from the top, swirling into nothingness, disappearing into the air around it. He licks his lips, remembering the warmth and the rich flavor of coffee, and walks toward it.

He pulls off the lid. He should put something in it. Right now, it’s pitch black, swirling colors like spilled petrol on the surface. He doesn’t think he’d like the taste of petrol, and wonders what he should put in it.

Someone clears their throat, and he looks up to see the barista staring at him. “There’s milk and sugar over there,” she says, pointing with her finger.

He turns to look in that direction, and sees a little stand with some nice tins and napkins.

“Thank you,” he says, tongue slow and deliberate.

He’s not sure how much creamer to put in, so he just keeps pouring until the liquid is honey-gold. It sure doesn’t look like petrol now, and he takes a sip.

Doesn’t taste like petrol either. Tastes like… morning. Like pale blue eyes and a careful smile.

What an odd thought to think, he ponders, and looks up as someone enters.

It’s a man. A short man, shorter than him, tanned. He’s got a pad of paper and a pen, and he smiles brightly once he enters.

“Hellooo there, you must be Chris Trott!”

Chris Trott? He bites his lip. The name sounds familiar, but he doesn’t necessarily think it’s _his_. “Must I?”

The man’s smile falters, then widens. “Haha, didn’t think you’d be a joker, from what I’ve heard of you! Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Aren’t you already?”

“Hah!” It’s not so much a laugh as an exclamation. “Why don’t we take a seat here by the window, when it’s such a nice day out!” He raises his eyebrows, exaggeratedly, and wiggles his elbow, as if to include the other in a joke.

“Oh,” he says, but the cheerful man is already making his way to the table, so he follows.

He’s getting nervous. He was okay, but now there’s an excitable man asking him questions. He doesn’t have answers! Why is someone asking him questions? His fingers scritch along the sleeve on his coffee, fingernails catching against the ridged cardboard.

Is he Chris Trott?

Who _is_ Chris Trott?

And _who_ is this man?

He plants his feet on the ground. “Why do you want to ask me questions?”

The man grins sharply, still thinking he’s joking around. He’s not joking around, not now.

“Well, you’re a little bit more well known than your average joe in a coffee joint!”

His fingers are too excitable, and he’s having trouble keeping hold of his coffee. He wants his coffee. He wants this man to go.

“Why? Because I’m - I’m Chris Trott?”

The man’s smile is finally going away. Maybe he’ll leave him in peace.

“Yeah … you _are_ him, aren’t you? Didn’t mistake you for someone else?”

“I’m--!” Maybe he _is_ Chris Trott. He isn’t _not_ Chris Trott. “I don’t -- I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure?” the man says, incredulous. “Partied a bit too hard last night? Didn’t think you were the type!”

“Party? No. No party. I’m here to. To work?”

The man’s eyes leave him, finally, and he finally remembers the barista who is here.

“Has he been like this the whole time?” the man asks the barista.

She nods, slowly.

“Okay. I’m gonna, gonna go get someone, how about that?”

“Really?” she asks.

“Oh come on, Shirley, I’m not completely heartless.”

The man comes back toward him, rests a hand on his shoulder. He startles at the touch, warm and heavy against him. “You just sit tight for a while. Shirley’ll keep an eye on you, okay?”

“Okay?” he says, but the man is already on his way out.

He blinks, and looks at the table the man has abandoned. He’ll sit here. It is a nice day out. Or so the man said.

~

When he wakes up, Trott’s gone.

He shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. Trott was so clingy, so ... Something, yesterday, that he can't quite believe he's gone.

But the bed's cold, and empty, and Smith decides to get on with his day.

So he takes a quick shower, downs two cokes in rapid succession, and makes his brisk way out the door and down the stairs.

He goes about his normal morning preparation, tired and vague, trying to avoid drawing any attention to himself after the fiasco that was yesterday.

Finally, he makes his way to the makeup trailer and prepares himself for another series of irritating bristles and powders.

And then the door to the makeup trailer swings open with a loud bang, and Ross’ furious visage is visible.

“Where the fuck is Trott?”

And that’s about when Smith realizes Trott’s missing.

~

It takes one look at Smith’s dumbfounded face to convince Ross that the other man has no idea where Trott is.

Damn it, damn it, damn it. As upsetting as it would be, at least he would know where Trott _is_.

For now? He’s lost, and even worse, _Ross_ is lost, panic beginning to pluck at the chords of his mind, pondering what … if.

He doesn’t notice the paparazzo slip into the hotel, and certainly doesn’t notice him make his way up to Ross.

“Hey, um, Director Hornby, right?”

Ross can’t manage much more than a confused look in the stranger’s direction, but the shorter man seems to take it in stride.

“Uh, I’m a fan, um, Ross, or otherwise I probably wouldn’t be doing this--”

“What?” Ross asks tersely, already losing patience with the other’s drawn-out way of speaking.

“Um, I found your guy, you know, Chris Trott, and he’s pretty. I mean, he’s pretty fucked up.”

Ross lurches forward, grabbing the other man by the shoulders, and before he can even think he’s getting directions out of him.

~

It feels like a lifetime of fear has come crashing down when he finds Trott.

The smaller man is sitting, quietly and agreeably, at the window of a quaint little cafe, eyes scanning the passersby with little interest. He’s mismatched, wearing unbuttoned flannel over a graphic tee, and that is enough to cause a twinge of alarm to stir in Ross’ gut. He hasn’t seen Trott like this in a very long time.

The door to the cafe jingles ominously, the barista’s greeting falling on deaf ears as Ross turns to Trott.

“Trott, mate?” There’s no acknowledgement.

Ross takes a couple of quick strides and he’s standing beside Trott. Dropping a hand on his shoulder, he gives the seated man a gentle shake. “Trott?”

Trott’s eyes turn to him. There’s no sign of recognition; then he blinks and his eyes drift across Ross’ features.

“Ross,” he says in a gravelly voice.

“Jesus, Trott. You could’ve fucking told me you were having trouble. I thought you were on meds?”

Trott blinks again: a passive demonstration of surprise. “Oh. No, I don’t need those anymore.”

Ross grinds his teeth. “Yes, mate, you _very clearly_ do.”

Trott reaches a clumsy hand up to rub his face, confusion etched across his brow. “Do I?” It’s said without irony; only curiosity.

“Yes!” Ross sucks in a deep breath, tries to remind himself not to get angry. It isn’t exactly something Trott can help.

Or, rather, he could’ve if he’d kept taking his fucking meds, but that wasn’t the issue right now. “Look, we’re going to the hospital.”

“Mmkay,” Trott says. He pats his jeans pocket, then looks down with confusion at his own hand.

“Your wallet’s there,” Ross says, pointing it out on the table.

“Thanks,” Trott murmurs, grabbing it loosely. “Okay?” he asks vaguely, glancing around the coffee shop.

Ross spares a moment to glance at the uncomfortable barista. He glowers briefly at her, then sucks in an unsteady breath. “Yep, c’mon, Trott, we’re going.”


	7. Priorities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a PSA. If you take meds, take your meds. Don’t do as Trott does. Trott is a short-sighted masochist. And not in a good way.

His fingers trace the nametag they’d given him up at reception, peeling back at the adhesive and picking at the edges. This is the room, all right, but the door is most of the way shut and Smith doesn’t feel confident enough to try to open it.

“Can I help you?” A pleasant voice says behind him, and he turns quickly to see a nurse standing in the hallway.

“No, I’m fine,” he says, feeling the lie as it leaves his lips. She smiles at him, and continues down the hallway, and he swallows as he realizes anyone inside the room would’ve heard the exchange.

He drops his hand onto the door handle and pushes, gently.

“Hello?” he asks the darkened room.

“Smith.” Ross’ voice is equally quiet.

“How… how is he?” Smith says, taking a step inside.

“He’s out, now. They gave him some sedatives.”

“Oh.”

Smith feels ridiculously like he’s intruding. He takes a few more steps to finally see Ross and Trott clearly. Ross is sat in a chair beside the hospital bed, hands resting lightly on the thin blankets. Trott is laying on his back, hands flat along his sides. He’s unnaturally still, disturbingly still.

“Do you, um, do you know what happened? They wouldn’t tell me anything…” Smith trails off, biting his lip. They’d said he couldn’t get details because he wasn’t family, but Ross had brought him in, so maybe..?

“Actually, yes.” Ross finally looks up at Smith, and Smith is unnerved to see just how tired the other man looks. “I was his emergency contact back at uni, and I guess he never took me off the list. Not that I needed the doctor’s rundown.”

“What - what’s wrong? With him?” Smith takes another tentative step forward, and now he’s just an arm’s length away from the hospital bed.

“He was in a dissociative fugue state.”

“Oh,” Smith says, bewilderment fighting with fear in his gut. He sucks in an unsteady breath, and Ross smiles, wearily.

“It’s not quite as bad as it sounds. I mean, it’s happened before and he’s been … mostly all right.”

Smith bites his lip and shuffles his feet, feeling for all the world like a guilty child. “Did I … did he…”

“It wasn’t you,” Ross says, leaning back in his chair. One hand stays on the surface of the bed, but Smith has the good grace to ignore it. “It’s … anyway, it’s his own fault - he was taking medication for it, before, but apparently he hasn’t been for a while.” Ross’ free hand rubs at his forehead, then swings wide to gesture at the room’s other chair. “Take a seat, Smith, this might be a while.”

Smith lurches forward on his unsteady feet, grabbing the spare chair and dragging it, legs making an unpleasant noise against the hospital’s laminate flooring. He pulls it up, next to Ross’. Too close, probably, considering all that’s happened in the past few days - but Smith doesn’t care. Trott’s still, dead quiet, and bluish-pale in the darkened hospital room, and he can’t stand to be far away from either him or Ross now.

Ross takes his move in stride, shifting his weight in his chair to be just a fraction closer to Smith.

“What’s --” Smith’s voice sounds unnaturally loud, and he lowers it to a whisper. “What’s a dissociative, um?”

“Fugue state. It’s … well, it’s a symptom of a larger disorder, but what it means, basically, is that he forgot who he was for an extended period of time.”

“What? That’s … I didn’t think that actually happened in real life, I mean…” Smith’s fingers worry at his jeans. “I mean, and Trott seems so … normal, I guess.”

Ross grins humorlessly. “What’s normal, Smith? _Me_? _You_?”

“Yeah, okay,” Smith concedes.

“Back when he first got diagnosed, we were together, in, at uni. I did research on my own time, never really told him, but as far as I understand, it’s a symptom of some anxiety disorders. Um, often combined with PTSD. A symptom of child abuse, usually.”

Smith’s eyes widen, and he stares at Ross with unabashed alarm.

Ross shrugs. “He never told me anything. I don’t know either way, but, you know. Not something you forget easily.”

Smith thinks, really thinks, about Trott’s caustic attitude, about his own attitude, about the way Trott had looked at him yesterday -

“All day yesterday,” Smith says, realization hitting him in the gut with force.

“Probably,” Ross says, and his voice sounds surprisingly sympathetic.

“He was always … he was acting like he was in character.”

Ross shrugs. “Makes sense. He’s spent the last months memorizing lines, memorizing the character. In the absence of himself, makes sense that’s what he’d turn to.”

“He didn’t --” Smith remembers himself. “I’m sorry, Ross, I mean I know you -- but he didn’t --”

“What?” Ross asks, quietly.

“Mean it.”

Ross lets out a breathy sigh. “Don’t blame him, please. I’ve already done more than enough of that myself. He doesn’t deserve it.”

Smith leans forward, dropping his elbows onto his knees. “How does he do it?” he mutters, mostly to himself.

“Do what?” Ross asks, and Smith’s forced to voice the fearful thoughts tickling at the corner of his mind.

“You know,” he says, but Ross doesn’t answer. “We’re -- I mean, it’s obvious, we don’t have to act like --”

Ross drops his head into his hand, seemingly ignoring Smith. And Smith decides he’s had enough of all of this tiptoeing. “We’re both totally fucking gone for him, and he’s just … so fucking _apathetic_.”

“You think he’s apathetic _now_ ,” Ross says darkly.

“I don’t get it,” Smith says softly.

He wants reassurance, and before he can stop himself he reaches out to grasp Ross’ hand, warm against his skin. Ross doesn’t look at him, hardly reacts; just takes his hand in his own and sits silently, eyes on Trott’s still form.

Smith feels a little better, now. A little protected. He’s afraid of what will happen when Trott’s eyes open, but at least it seems Ross doesn’t hate him.

Though he probably should.

“I’m sorry,” Smith murmurs, half hoping that Ross won’t hear.

But he does, of course. “For what?”

Smith sighs. As if Ross doesn’t know. “For trying to blackmail you? For … for sleeping with Trott? What else? I mean, being an awful actor? For causing you so much trouble?”

“Oh, _that_ ,” Ross says, and Smith’s annoyed to hear amusement in his tone.

“Yeah,” Smith says.

~

Ross is so used to this scenario that he feels way more comfortable than he should, way too soon. Trott, unconscious, in need; and he is waiting by the bedside.

Of course, this time he’s not alone. Smith’s quiet breaths fill the room in a way that Trott’s don’t; giving life and volume and that inimitable sense of companionship. Inescapable, too; he can feel Smith thinking, worrying, the possibilities running endlessly through him.

Someone to hold him accountable. Trott had stopped taking his meds, but … “This is my fault,” Ross says, words carried on quiet breath.

“What? Of course it’s not,” Smith says, but he doesn’t know.

“Before - before he went to you, back when he was acting normal, I told him. About us. I think that was probably what - what did it.”

Ross feels Smith’s hand twitch against his own, but pretends he doesn’t.

“Why would that..?”

“Stress. Primarily, I mean. But…” Ross bites his tongue and thinks, really, no. He doesn’t have the right to tell Smith this. “He doesn’t handle inter-relational stress well.”

An understatement.

Ross feels adrift. Strong as ever, there’s that longing inside him - the longing for Trott. To hold Trott on his lap, to cuddle, to exchange sweet words. All those things they’d never managed to do.

But Smith’s hand in his, larger than Trott’s, feels right.

And even among all this fear and indecision, it’s not Ross’ choice to make. It never will be. He’s powerless facing Trott’s magnetic something-or-other, that bizarre charisma that he exudes seemingly despite himself.

Whatever it is that draws people in despite their will.

That’s what holds all the power in this.

~

Everything hurts.

Everything hurts and he wants to cry. He hasn’t in years, hasn’t felt the need to, but now, it tugs at his throat and at his heart.

He doesn’t want to have to _be_.

But he is.

He feels the air in his lungs, the thrumming of his heart, and knows that, without a doubt, he _is_.

He did not ask for this.

The breath that escapes him is shaky, heavy like a sob. No tears, not yet; not ever if he can help it. And then the soothing voice he knows too well:

“Trott? Trott, mate, I’m here.”

And the touch that feels so angelic against his hand.

And he sobs in earnest.

How odd, how impossible it is that kindness is what breaks him. Every time.

And he hears a second kind voice and a second loving touch and he cannot accept, cannot comprehend it, the warmth that surrounds and holds him.

And again, he is broken.


	8. Under Pressure

Eventually he can breathe again, the fear and sorrow worn down by exhaustion. Still, though, he feels the warm embrace and the drying tears on his face.

It’s quiet, now; he can hear the quiet clicking of some of the machines nearby, the tap of footsteps in the hall, and soft breaths. He blinks his eyes open, anxiety burning in his stomach like bile.

They seem asleep. They can’t be, but they’re both still and quiet, Ross tucked underneath his right arm and Smith’s cheek resting just below his heart.

His fingers move of their own volition to bury themselves in Ross’ hair, the strands feeling softer than usual: no gel. Trott pauses to wonder what time it is, before deciding he’d rather not know.

It’s been so long since he was this lost. He didn’t think it’d ever get this bad again. But here he is. Dragging Ross through hell yet again. And now Smith, the poor bastard.

He swallows, realizing he doesn’t know why Smith seems so okay cuddled into his side, and wonders what the hell he’s done _this_ time. Smith’s a reassuring pressure, warm and melted into his side like it’s second nature. Trott closes his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Ross’ voice is soft and calming, and Trott thinks, somewhat bitterly, that he sounds like he’s talking to a spooked horse.

“Fine.” But his voice isn’t as fine as he’d hoped, still scratchy from his outburst, shaky from the instinctive fear building inside of him.

Trott feels movement against his side, almost ticklish as Smith’s hand shifts. He feels tension in his movements now, alien uncertainty. Typical, Trott thinks, that just being his goddamn self is enough to destroy even the indication of contentment. But he’ll almost be happier if Smith gets up and leaves now, perversely. Trott will hurt, and he’ll know it’s his own fault, and that’s what will make it even sweeter.

But he opens his eyes to see Smith looking up at him with worry and uncertainty, and Smith says quietly, “Do you want me to go?”

Trott’s throat is tight, and he can’t speak.

Smith shifts, his weight leaving Trott’s side. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -- I mean I guess you can’t remember, and I wouldn’t want to --”

Trott isn’t aware of reaching but his hand captures Smith’s, clinging tightly to him. As selfish as it is, he needs Smith here. He doesn’t know what happened between them, but if Smith is willing …

Smith’s words break off, and Trott hears his breathing, quiet and unsteady. He wishes he could speak, reassure Smith, but he doesn’t have the words. Instead he clings to his hand, thumb stroking along Smith’s knuckles.

And there’s a quiet sigh as the weight returns to the bed and to his side.

His presence is so tangible, even as Trott lays still with his eyes shut. He can feel the twitch and shift of Smith against him, as he searches for a comfortable position. He can hear the soft breaths, the rustle of fabric. Even more disconcerting, he smells Smith’s shampoo and _recognizes_ it.

As usual, the memories are there, if buried.

“What do you remember?” Ross asks in that same, soothing tone.

Oh, he can hardly bear to tell them, because he knows for certain he’s done something - horrible, manipulative. He hates this part of himself, cloying and possessive, and almost beyond his will.

“We were talking, Ross, about - you two.” He feels bitter, still, thinking about it - but here they are, with him, on either side of him. Surely, if Ross had had enough, that would be - but who knows what he’d done. He must have worried the two of them. God, why couldn’t he just take care of himself? Now they’re stuck here with him, when they should be - living their lives, or something. He’s so incredibly selfish.

He needs to know, before it eats away at him.

“What did I do?”

There’s a heady moment of silence, and Trott concentrates on breathing. He’s still too afraid to open his eyes, to look this reality in the face.

Smith speaks first.

“You, kinda, went into character, it seemed? Like you seemed to think we were our characters.”

It doesn’t take more for Trott to realize what happened - he had believed himself to be in love with Smith. And Smith, with him. Poor man, just trying to do his fucking job, and here was Trott, an absolute hot mess from start to finish.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and finds himself really meaning it.

“Trott,” Ross says, that painfully calm voice.

“Yeah?”

“I thought you were taking meds.”

Trott swallows, hard. He knows this isn’t going to end well. He has a desire to just lay back and pretend to have fallen asleep, but he knows they wouldn’t fall for that.

“I was,” he says finally, reluctant to say more.

“And?” Ross asks.

“I stopped.”

“Why?”

Trott sighs, lifting his hand away from Ross to run through his own hair. The motion is aborted as he feels the tug of the IV in his hand, and he drops it back down to his side. “My acting suffered.”

There’s silence, and stillness, and the trepidation is enough to motivate Trott to open his eyes.

Ross and Smith are staring at him with twin expressions of disbelief, and Trott almost wants to laugh. But he can just imagine what Ross will do to him in that case. So instead he smiles a tired, humorless smile and shrugs.

“You fucking cock,” Ross says, and Trott leans his head back down onto the pillows.

~

It’s worse than he’d imagined, and he’s really trying to hold himself back. Trust Trott to risk his well-being for work. He grinds his teeth, remembering what he told Smith - that Trott needs them now, and to set aside other things to focus on what’s important.

His health.

Which he, himself, neglected.

Ross shuts his eyes, breathing in deeply.

“You should’ve at least _told_ someone,” Smith says, softer than Ross could’ve managed.

Ross’ eyes open and he continues fiercely, “I could’ve at least kept an _eye_ on you, Trott!”

“We were terrified!”

Ross bites his tongue, feeling the rawness in Smith’s voice and knowing that it’s true. He watches Trott blink, catches a glimmer of unnatural brightness in his eyes. Guilt eats at him, aware of Trott’s tendency toward internalization.

But he watches Trott swallow, and when the man’s eyes open, they’re clear.

“Really, Ross? When, exactly, would I have told you? At what point have you demonstrated your care for my well-being before this very moment?”

Ross can protest, but he remembers the fear of Trott’s own distance had prevented him from acting out on his feelings of care. And they can’t get into this now; Trott’s in the hospital and Smith’s here, and it’s all too much.

“We’re fucked, mate, we’re both fucked.”

Trott’s eyes are harsh, self-protective; Ross feels fear as he knows how vindictive Trott can be. But he nods, accepting, and says: “Yeah, I guess so.”

Ross catches movement out of the corner of his eye; watches as Smith drops a steady hand against Trott’s heart. He fights against jealousy, against bitterness, as Trott makes no move to stop him.

Trott sucks in a deep breath, his chest expanding against Ross’ side. They’re still so close, all pressed against each other to fit into the small hospital bed. Ross doesn’t know what he wants - to leave, to send Smith away, to stay - but Trott only shakes his head and says, “Well, where do we stand? Do we have enough time to finish at this location?”

Ross sucks in his own breath, feeling the urge to yell, but Smith’s voice, soft, interrupts him.

“Sooner we finish the shooting, sooner he can get stabilized.”

Ross knows he’s right: despite all this, Trott’s not going to get himself proper treatment until the job is done.

Unless, of course, Ross…

Ross can’t do that to him. Can’t take work away from him. Trott would never forgive him.

And despite everything, he’s still fighting for Trott’s acceptance.

~

Ross drives them back to the hotel. By now, darkness has fallen, and Trott’s skin glows ghost-white underneath the streetlamps.

Smith can’t help but stare, watching light alternating with shadow dancing across the other man’s face. His eyelids keep dropping slowly, exhaustion possessing him; and Smith can hardly blame him.

Then Trott’s eyes meet his, and Smith feels a startled shock of alarm. But Trott only smiles sadly, and murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Smith says, before he can think.

“Whatever it was, exactly, that I did. Dragging you in to this.”

“We--” Smith says, and waves his hand. Trott raises an eyebrow, some of the old disdain entering his expression. Smith smiles brightly, thinking how odd it was to be delighted to see _that_ look on his face once again. “We may or may not have, you know.”

“Was it good for you?” Trott asks drily.

Smith grins sharply, ignoring the uncharacteristic blush on his cheeks. Then he catches Ross’ eyes in the rearview mirror, and feels himself go pale. “Sorry,” he says quietly, not sure exactly who he’s speaking to.

He feels warmth against his hand, and looks down to see Trott entwining their fingers. He feels so lost, so confused, so out-of-depth, but he can’t help but be grateful.

As fucked up as both Ross and Trott are, he feels like he’s here for a reason. Like he belongs here.

Wishful thinking, he tells himself.

But Trott squeezes his hand.


	9. Catalysts

Trott doesn’t let go of Smith’s hand and so Smith doesn’t let go of Trott’s. Not even as they make their way to the elevator, as Ross presses the button and leans against the elevator wall with a moody look on his face.

Before any of them even seem to realize where they’re going, they’re all stood outside Trott’s room, and both Smith and Ross’ feet stutter to a halt outside the threshold.

Trott only looks at them, and says, “Well?”

And so all three enter.

Trott leads them over to the bed and climbs on top of the covers, dragging Smith along with him. Smith moves hesitantly, keeping his limbs from bumping into any of Trott’s unnecessarily. Trott smiles at him, tiredly, and flops onto the bed on his back.

Smith watches his face even as the other man turns to beckon Ross, and is not really surprised to feel a tugging at his heart as he studies Trott’s expression. He seems uncharacteristically free, and Smith hopes fervently that this mood is here to stay, at least for a little while.

Ross huffs a sigh from across the room, and Smith looks up to find the director make his way over to the foot of the bed. Ross’ hands are slow and strangely gentle as he tugs Trott’s feet toward him, one by one, and undoes the laces to his shoes and tugs them off onto the floor.

And then, without even looking up at him, he does the same for Smith.

It’s weirdly intimate, in a way Smith hasn’t experienced before: Ross’ fingers on his feet, methodical. Familiar in their touch, but not overly so. Comforting.

And then Ross shucks his own shoes off, quickly, and climbs onto the bed on Trott’s other side.

They’re in the same positions as they were in the hospital, and Smith almost comments on it.

But he feels the press of lips against his forehead, and a terrifying warmth envelopes him.

He is in love. Far, far too in love.

But Trott’s breath and heart have already slowed into a steady, reassuring tempo; and Smith drifts into sleep with him.

~

Trott is wide awake too early. He doesn’t want to move and disturb the others, but the longer he stays like this the more presumptuous he feels. 

He hears a deep sigh, and Ross shifts against him, feet kicking out against Trott’s legs. Then he startles, and his eyes open abruptly. “Trott,” he whispers, as if entranced, and then he blinks.

“G’morning,” Trott murmurs.

Ross’ eyes watch him closely, scrutiny almost too much for Trott. But he stares back, aware that he owes Ross this much.

“Kiss me,” Ross whispers, and Trott raises an eyebrow, eyes flitting as if to indicate Smith behind him.

“No, just. Just, kiss me,” Ross says, and Trott hears something he’s not quite sure about in Ross’ voice.

But he leans in, resting his hand gently on Ross’ shoulder, and presses his lips to Ross’.

It’s slow, easy, and Trott feels more than a little out of his depth. But he follows Ross’ lead, only exerting slow pressure and careful warmth. He allows his lips to part, just slightly, but Ross ignores the invitation. It feels just short of an eternity when Ross pulls back slowly, his own hand coming to rest on top of Trott’s.

Trott watches Ross’ eyes, and whispers: “I hurt you.”

Ross smiles a little, too easygoing, and whispers: “Yeah.”

Trott lets out a breathy sigh, biting his lip. He feels Ross’ fingers stroke his hand, and Trott murmurs, “You want this?”

Ross gives him a questioning look, and Trott slowly twists his hand so he can intertwine his fingers with Ross’. And Ross’ expression clears. He nods, once. Almost curtly, but Trott can sense the way Ross’ heart is pumping in his veins.

“There’s only so much I have in me,” Trott says. He’s not sure how else to say it, to explain the fear and angry self-protection he feels. It almost hurts to be like this, to hold Ross’ hand and whisper to him in the near-darkness.

Ross smiles a little, though, and says, “You think I don’t know that, Trott? It’s okay. As long as I know . . . I know you want to.”

Trott bites his lip, breathes, and says: “Yes.”

Ross’ hand tightens on Trott’s, and he throws a glance over Trott’s shoulder. Subtle, but obvious enough.

“Did it make you really angry?” Trott asks.

Ross sighs, and his eyes shut. “Yes and no. I was more afraid than angry.”

“You can have feelings for more than one person.”

“Is that the general ‘you’, Trott, or are you trying to tell me something?”

“Both,” Trott says, and Ross scoffs. “I know it’s not something . . . I know we’ve never talked about this.”

“Trott,” Ross says flatly, “we’ve never even been in a real relationship, let alone talked about the limits of said relationship.”

Trott smiles, then frowns, then bites his lip. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” Ross says, quieter now. “I know I crossed the line with that. If it helps, I regretted it even as I said it.”

“It does help,” Trott says. “I know that, deep down. But I --”

Trott feels Smith suddenly tense against his back, and realizes he forgot to keep his voice down. He turns immediately, so he’s lying on his back between the two, and drops his free hand against Smith’s arm.

Smith’s staring back at him, eyes wide and almost scared. Trott feels a little cruel, but he needs Smith to stay. He needs them all to talk about this, and talk now, before everything can get the chance to be brushed away by the passage of time.

Trott’s eyes can’t leave Smith’s, and Smith’s can’t seem to leave Trott’s either; eyes wide, they watch each other at impasse. Trott opens his mouth, but he doesn’t know if he has the strength to say something.

“Smith,” Ross says from Trott’s other side. “Good morning.”

Trott watches Smith’s eyes flicker away, over his shoulder to meet Ross’. And Trott can see Ross’ smile reflected in Smith’s face; the way his lips unconsciously turn up, the way his eyes seem to narrow with the hint of contentment.

“Good morning,” Trott murmurs, echoing Ross’ sentiment.

“Is it?” Smith asks, eyes shooting back to Trott’s. His smile is a little bit rueful now.

“I don’t see why it can’t be,” Ross says.

“We can make it as good as we want it to be,” Trott says, squeezing Smith’s forearm almost imperceptibly.

Smith’s eyes dart down to Trott’s hand. The moment seems to stretch out into eternity as Trott watches Smith carefully.

Smith’s chest rises with breath, and he says, very quietly, “Look, it’s good of you, but your thing has been … you’ve been a thing for far longer.”

“New isn’t less important,” Trott says instinctively.

Ross heaves a heavy sigh and says loudly, “Look, can we stop talking in fucking riddles? I’m sorry, Smith, for everything that Trott and I have put you through. It’s really not fucking fair. But neither of us want to say goodbye to you. And we don’t want to say goodbye to each other.”

Smith frowns. “So where does that leave us?”

“You have to have had a threesome before, mate,” Trott says drily.

“That’s different!” Smith says.

“Does it have to be?” Ross asks.

Trott doesn’t know. And neither, it seems, does Smith.

~

They’re both quiet at his question, and Ross isn’t sure he knows the answer either. All he knows is he loves Trott, and Trott feels whatever it is he feels for both Ross and Smith. And while Ross isn’t sure he loves Smith, he certainly finds him attractive; and there’s something lively about him that’s so different from Trott, and so delightful.

What he’s getting at is, he’d really like to fuck both of them.

And while they’re busy mulling over a question that doesn’t have an answer yet, he’s distracted by the sight of Trott’s hand still resting on Smith’s arm. He knows they were together, but he doesn’t know what it was like.

And he really, really wants to know.

“We can’t know,” Ross says stridently, “not yet. This isn’t the kind of thing that’ll resolve itself into an answer just by thinking about it.”

“So what you’re saying is?” Smith says crossly.

Ross shifts up on the bed, bracing one hand against the mattress. With the other, he grabs the collar of Smith’s t-shirt and leans across Trott to press their lips together.

Though he wouldn’t admit it, he is nervous; but Trott’s throaty laughter and the returning pressure of Smith’s lips against his own is enough to reassure him. It’s heady to think of Trott between them, looking up and watching them.

And then he feels the warmth of Trott’s hand against his cheek, and Smith gasps against his lips. So he opens his eyes to see Trott mouthing at Smith’s neck, lips dragging slowly at the skin and tongue flickering against Smith’s stubble.

Ross presses forward, allowing his weight to push Smith down, giving Trott an easier reach. His hand shifts against the mattress so his wrist is against Trott’s shoulder, the touch reassuring in its simplicity.

He feels sudden pressure against his cock and he jumps, lips breaking from Smith’s as a fervent curse escapes his lips. He shuts his eyes, concentrating on the delightful pressure against him, rocking slowly up and down against him.

When he finally manages to open his eyes, he’s staring down at Trott and Smith, their mouths moving against each other’s. He can see by the curve of Smith’s cheek that Trott’s tongue is exploring, and his gut clenches at the thought.

He finally looks down, seeing Trott’s hand loosely clasped around him, the steady pressure by his design. Ross lets out a moan at the sight: the methodical, almost unconcerned movement of Trott’s hand.

He shuts his eyes against the sensation, breath escaping his lungs in a rush. And then he feels another hand, tugging at his fly and shoving his pants aside.

And then, oh god, two hands on him, stroking against his skin. Their fingers bump each other, sloppily and not in the least synchronized. Ross doesn’t care, can’t even tell. He’s swept away on a wave of sensation, heart hammering in his chest.

He’s so aware that it’s both of them, and he’s almost mindless with the thought of it; the strange confidence that’s entered him now uncharacteristic but very welcome.

He doesn’t feel _alone_ , like he used to with just Trott.

He feels _together_.

~

Trott’s tongue is in his mouth and both their hands are on Ross’ erection and despite Smith’s trepidation he’s trapped in the moment, unable to feel fear about the future. Right now, this is exactly where he ought to be.

To think he doesn’t need to make a choice - that he can be with both of them? His hand tightens around Ross instinctively, and a low groan escapes the other man’s mouth. Smith feels Trott’s lips curve into a smile, then pull away, leaving Smith’s mouth in a disappointed pout.

He opens his eyes to see Trott more or less on his back, coy smile on his lips as he watches Ross. Then, as Smith looks down, Trott’s hand captures his and pulls them away from Ross’ cock, leaving the other man to moan in distress. His eyes blink open after a moment, blown wide with confusion and arousal.

“Take your fucking clothes off, mate, will you?” Trott says, and Ross stares at him for a moment in bewilderment before nodding faintly. His erection bobs a little as he moves away from the bed, and Smith’s eyes follow it with unabashed interest.

“You too, mate,” Trott says to Smith, and Smith squirms a little on the bed before reaching down to undo his fly.

Trott stretches himself out luxuriously, arching his back higher than Smith would’ve deemed healthy, before shifting onto his knees. Smith pauses halfway through taking his shirt off to watch Trott undress, quickly and efficiently. Then Trott’s eyes land on him, seeing he hasn’t finished, and tsks quietly. “C’mon, Smith,” he says, and Smith yanks the shirt off in one fluid move, tossing it across the room.

Ross leans forward onto the bed, erection really flushed and expression pleading. “Trott?” he asks, and Trott grins in response.

“I’ve got a really good idea,” Trott says, “but it’ll take some setup.”

Ross whines, and Trott laughs. “Smith, roll onto your side here, facing me.” Smith does, raising his eyebrows in silent curiosity. “Okay, Ross, up on the bed.”

Ross crawls up, eyes tracing Smith’s form with undisguised eagerness. Trott’s hand lands on his arm, lightly, and Ross’ skin jumps, eyes turning to Trott quickly. “Turn ‘round,” Trott says, and a slight frown crosses Ross’ face as he turns to face Trott.

“No,” Trott says, “I mean --” He falls silent, instead guiding Ross with his hands so that Ross is once again facing Smith, but his feet are resting on the pillows and his head is about level with Smith’s erection.

“Good one, Trott,” Smith says, reaching his hand out to rest on Ross’ waist.

“I’m full of good ideas,” Trott says, coyly.

“What about you, Trott?” Ross asks, but his eyes are focused on Smith’s cock.

“I can take care of myself,” Trott reassures Ross, patting his thigh gently. “Be right back.”

Smith feels Ross’ lips close around him, the other man’s hand coming to rest on his hips as if to ensure he doesn’t squirm away. Far from an issue. Smith leans in, dragging Ross toward him by the waist, and wraps his own mouth around Ross’ erection.

Trott really was full of great ideas. Smith’s never really been able to do this successfully, because of his height. But Ross is nearly as tall as him, and this is working really well, if he does say so himself.

Ross is really into it, tongue and lips tight around Smith as he moves slowly but purposefully. Smith’s stomach tightens and he forces himself not to thrust into Ross’ mouth. Well, not yet, anyway. He moves his free hand up to encircle the base of Ross’ erection, increasing pressure and allowing him more freedom of movement as he strokes his tongue along the slit of Ross’ dick, tasting the precum forming there.

Smith hasn’t forgotten about Trott, but he still jumps with surprise when he feels a new hand against his waist. Trott chuckles, quietly, and strokes the hand up and down his side in a reassuring sweep. Smith exhales loudly through his nose, but continues his ministrations on Ross without a pause.

He feels a twinge of nervousness as he feels a lube-slicked finger stroking at his entrance, but he’s been there before, and consciously relaxes himself as Trott’s fingers continue to quest against him. Trott must feel the muscle relaxing, and after a fraction of a moment, the tip of his finger is pressed inside Smith, then more, and the tip of a second finger follows.

Smith tries to concentrate on the movement of his mouth against Ross’ arousal, but as he feels himself being stretched he begins losing the edge of his control - his lips around Ross’ erection, Ross’ around his own, the steady and increasing movement of Trott’s fingers in him - his hips shudder, and Trott’s fingers pull back slightly, and away.

A disappointed moan escapes him, around the cock in his mouth. Ross shakes in response to the vibrations, and Smith moans again, enjoying the way Ross’ throat tightens around his own erection. Trott really was right; this is probably the most excitingly interactive sex position he’s ever been in.

And then he feels Trott’s erection against his entrance and holy fucking shit, Trott is _brilliant_ , and he feels Trott’s lube-slicked hand on his waist and he groans again, a whine escaping Ross as a result. Smith’s hand clamps down on Ross’ waist, trying to hold on amidst the rush of sensation, and he feels Trott’s hips flush against his ass. Smith leans in, taking as much of Ross’ erection in his mouth as he possibly can, and then more. Ross reacts wildly, hips jerking against Smith’s mouth and soon Smith tastes the salty come filling his mouth.

Ross’ mouth closes around him, and Smith feels the whisper of his teeth against him - just a little excitement stirring in him, and his body reacts wildly, stomach tightening and fists clenching, one on Ross’ waist and one tangled in the sheets. Trott moves against him in forceful thrusts, and Ross seems desperate to swallow him, and all at once in a rush of mindless pleasure he thrusts and comes, a strangled gasp escaping his lips before he all but collapses against the bed.

Smith almost shuts his eyes, but keeps them open in slivers as he watches Ross rise up on his knees, leaning over Smith and over to Trott. Smith feels Trott’s hand tighten against his hips, the short nails digging into his skin. And then Trott thrusts one last time against him, dropping his forehead onto the sweaty skin of Smith’s back. Smith moans, quietly, and reaches a hand back to grab Trott’s where it rests against his side.

Ross smiles, looking down at the two of them, and says, “How about a shower?”

“Bugger off,” Trott mutters into Smith’s back.

“Sleep first,” Smith agrees.

“Nice threesome, yeah?” Ross says, and Smith rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, mate, real great, okay.” Smith mutters, rolling forward to bury his face into the pillows.

“You know my feet were there,” Ross says, but Smith just ignores him.

He feels Trott shift against him a little, so he’s laying half on top of the taller man. Then the bed shifts as Ross leans down and sprawls out next to him.

“Fine,” Ross says, mock-curtly. “I guess it doesn’t really matter at this point.”

“Nope,” Smith mutters, voice muffled by the pillow. And he exhales slowly into the pillow as relief floods him. It’s beginning to seem like things will turn out all right.


	10. Covet

When Smith awakens, he can see orange sunlight peeking around the closed window curtains. He groans in mild confusion, rubbing his eyes with sleepy, uncooperative hands. And then he looks to his side to see Ross dead asleep on the pillows beside him.

 _Oh_. Smith feels a rush of something, not excitement, but close. He reaches out and presses his fingertips to Ross’ cheek, tracing the curve of the soft skin down to his chin.

There’s a squeak, a plumbing sound, and Smith realizes that the shower was running now that it’s ceased. He sits up, looking at his other side to realize that Trott’s missing.

The door to the bathroom opens, and with it comes an excessive billow of steam. Trott steps out, towels wrapped around his shoulders and his waist, a blank expression on his face. Smith feels a pang, much like panic, as he stares at the older man.

Then Trott meets his eyes, and the expression clears. “Good morning,” he says, and his voice isn’t quite affectionate. “Or, rather, good afternoon.”

Smith throws a cursory glance to the clock, and sees that it is, indeed, late afternoon. But he’s more preoccupied with Trott, niggling fear buried in his chest.

Trott must read his expression; he’s good at that, Smith remembers, as if recalling something from lifetimes ago. “It’s okay, Smith. I’m still myself.”

When Smith speaks, his voice is deeper than he expected. “Why do you sound so..?”

Trott smiles, an ironic quirk of his lips. “Scared?” he offers. That isn’t what Smith was thinking, but…

“I guess.”

“I have a laundry list of issues, Smith, as I imagine you’ve gathered. I haven’t addressed many of them,” Trott sighed, “and that’s my fault. I’m just … worried, and upset, about what I’m subjecting you to.”

“We both want it,” Smith says softly, not sure if he’s reassuring Trott or arguing with him. Not yet, anyway.

“I know you do. But you really don’t … know, do you?”

“I guess not,” Smith says. He watches Trott, the slow drip of water down his skin, and sees a faint, almost unconscious shiver pass through the shorter man.

“Sit,” Smith says suddenly, patting the spot on the bed beside him. Trott raises his eyebrows, skeptical, and Smith adds, “Please.”

Trott doesn’t say another word, but makes his way around the bed and seats himself next to Smith. Smith wraps an arm around him, pulling him into his chest. Trott’s skin doesn’t feel cold; it feels blazing, boiling, and up close he can see it’s tinged with pink.

“Did you take a shower or go skinny-dipping in a pool of lava?” Smith asks, and a startled bark of laughter escapes Trott.

“Both, in a way,” Trott says, and leans his weight against Smith.

“Well, be careful. Lava is dangerous, you know.”

“Really? I’d never heard that.”

“The more you know.”

Trott’s eyes, dark and deep, are boring into his. Smith feels flayed, in a way, open to his scrutiny and, even more terrifying, his understanding.

Trott’s hand, seemingly of its own volition, lifts up to rest against Smith’s cheek. Trott watches him. Smith smiles, and he tries his hardest to show Trott what he feels on his face.

Trott’s lips twitch; his eyes widen, and then, to Smith’s mounting horror, there are tears in his eyes. “Trott-” he begins, not sure what to say, not sure how to _help_.

“It -- hurts,” Trott bites out, eyes wild with the determination to stay focused on Smith. “Why does happiness have to _hurt_ so much?”

Smith’s hand tightens around Trott’s. Smith doesn’t remember putting his hand there. “Crying isn’t bad,” he says, but his heart lurches anyway.

“I know,” Trott says, and the words sound bitter. “I know.”

The mattress shifts under them, and SMith and Trott look as one as Ross stirs. He blinks his pale eyes open, and his brows scrunches briefly as he takes in the sight of the two of them.

~

“Morning,” Ross says, voice groggy. He blinks and looks up, breath stuttering at the sight of both their faces. “Oh, Trott,” he says, when he sees the tearstains on Trott’s face.

“‘Salright,” Smith says, in that matter-of-fact way he has.

Trott nods, reaching up with his free hand to wipe at his face.

Ross reaches out and rests a hand on Trott’s thigh. Trott smiles down at him, a little ruefully, and says: “It really is, mate. I’m just . . . worried, a bit.”

Ross swallows. He can’t deny he’s worried too, or that they don’t have a good reason to be. This thing is so new, and yet, old, too; old and careworn. He never thought that he and Trott would be able to - to progress, to make something of themselves together. There were too many little betrayals and walls between them.

But Smith . . . Smith had a way of cutting through that.

“I am, too,” Ross admits. “I’m fucking terrified, mate. But I . . .” his eyes flick up to Smith, who’s watching them, no judgment on his face. “I really think that we have a chance this time. That things will be different.”

Trott laughs quietly, and sniffles a little as his nose runs. A broad smile breaks out on Ross’ lips. “Mate, you are just too fucking cute,” he says, mischief in his voice. “Cute enough to--” he leans toward Trott and playfully bites his leg.

“Oh, fuck off!” Trott shouts, laughter in his voice. His hand lands on Ross’ head, shoving him away. “Are you a zombie now? Is that what you’re saying?” Trott’s hand shoves Ross’ face into the bedclothes. He laughs into the fabric, unabashed, the taste of linen on his tongue.

Smith’s voice joins in. “I think he’s saying he’s a filthy pervert, is what he’s saying.”

“You sure can pick a time, mate,” Trott says, mock-darkly. The hand releases Ross, fingers trailing through his hair before pulling away entirely.

Ross turns his head to the side so he can see them, smile still playing at his lips. Trott looks down at him, unimpressed. Smith grins at him over Trott’s shoulder. Ross shifts, propping his head up on his hand so he can make eye contact as he speaks.

“Really, though, mate. I think that if we put in the effort, we . . . really have a chance.”

Trott frowns thoughtfully, expression tinged with a little chagrin.

“I want to make this work. I really do. I want to put the time in. I hope you . . . can believe me.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll put the time in, too,” Smith interjects. “So long as you really…” he breaks off, suddenly, and Ross eyes him carefully.

“We do want you here, mate,” Trott says, certainty in his voice. “I don’t think . . . I don’t even think we would _work_ without you.”

Smith’s face clears a little. “Of course. You two are a clusterfuck.”

“Can two be a cluster?” Ross asks.

“I’ll tell you what the clusterfuck is,” Trott says. He smiles, a little, expression too sharp to be genuine. “Really, though, I need to say…” He shrugs at Smith, then throws an apologetic look to Ross.

“What, mate?” Ross says, and Trott sighs and shifts in place, rubbing a hand over his face. He twists his lip.

“I’m really - I mean, I know that you, both of you, love me. And -- I feel very much the same. But part of me _hates_ you for that. For feeling that way about me. For noticing me. And then I get angry at myself, because I have no reason to feel that way. But. I still do.”

Smith’s eyes flicker to Ross, a concerned furrow in his brow, and Ross feels the need to say something. “Mate, I get it. I really do. I’ve known you for fucking ages, Trott, and if you think I didn’t pick up on it when you would draw away . . . well, you’re wrong. I _did_ notice.”

“If you need space,” Smith says, voice determined, “you just have to say. We can handle it, you know.”

Trott gives a one-shouldered shrug, rueful smile playing at his lips. “You say that _now_.”

“Oh, c’mon, Trott. Smith and I can respect your fucking boundaries if that’s what you’re afraid of. And, I mean, I feel like . . . between the two of us, we’ll be able to take the occasional bout of rejection.” Ross gives Smith an assessing look, and at Smith’s nod, he allows himself a small smile. “I really think this’ll work, Trott.” They both turn to look at Trott, who’s gnawing on his lip thoughtfully.

Trott collapses back against the pillows, hiding his face behind his forearm. “You fuckers. Why are you looking at me like that.” It’s a statement, not a question, and neither Ross nor Smith bother answering.

Smith reaches out and rests his hand on Trott’s head, ruffling his still-wet hair. “‘Salright,” he says, in a sure voice, and Trott’s shoulders relax by a few degrees.

They sit in silence for a little while, room silent except for their quiet breaths.

A thought occurs to Ross, and he clears his throat. “If we’ve . . . and I think we’ve. . .” Ross twists his lips, feeling a bit demanding. “Could we, perhaps, go down and let the crew know we’re alive?”

Trott groans, putting his head in his hands. “I think I’d rather never face any of them ever again, actually.”

“We’re still making the movie, aren’t we?” Smith asks, suddenly, sounding serious. “I mean, I really. . .”

“I don’t even know _what_ kind of strings I’ll have to pull,” Ross says ruefully. He tilts his head, meeting Smith’s eyes. “But yeah, mate. We’ll make it happen.”

“Good,” Smith says, fiercely.

Ross glances at the clock. “Sorry, but we really better get moving.”

“I have a better idea,” Trott interjects, rising to his feet. “Neither of you have taken a shower. You reek of sex.”

“Shit,” Ross mutters faintly. He didn’t think of that.

“So we’re going to take a shower,” Trott says, note of finality in his voice.

“‘We’ are?” Smith asks.

“Yup,” Trott says, popping the ‘p’. “All three of us. In the shower.”

“Oh,” Ross says, a bit faintly.

“You really do have all the best ideas, Trott,” Smith says eagerly, jumping up from the bed. He trails after Trott into the ensuite, trying to suppress a gleeful grin.

Trott throws a glance over his shoulder. “Coming, Ross?”

“In a minute,” Smith snickers.

“Bugger,” Ross mutters, mock despondently, as he stands to join them.

~

Trott’s got Smith pinned against the foggy shower wall by the time Ross gets into the bathroom.

“Impatient, much?” Ross asks snarkily. Trott ignores him, too busy tasting the salty flavor of Smith’s neck. Smith shudders pleasingly against him, tilting his head back against the shower wall. His hair, barely damp from the tiles, sticks to the wall in little curls.

“Water,” Ross says. A sudden burst of freezing water cascades over Trott and Smith, and both let out little yelps as they shove apart, feet sliding on the wet tile.

“Hazards in the workplace!” Smith gasps, and Trott promptly smacks him on the arm.

“We _are_ taking a shower?” Ross asks. “I thought the water would be appreciated.”

“Maybe turn it just a little warmer, mate,” Trott says, sarcasm thick.

“I don’t know, I think you could do with a cold shower,” Ross says, with a significant glance downward.

“Ross,” Smith whines plaintively, and Ross relents, turning the dial on the water.

Before long, the air has turned thick with steam and Trott has Smith up against the wall again. This time, Ross joins, his chest pressed against Trott’s back. He leans down, breath the same temperature as the air around them, and presses a chaste kiss to Trott’s shoulder.

Trott hums in approval as he captures Smith’s lips in a deep kiss. He feels Ross’ fingers digging into his waist as Ross begins to kiss his way up to Trott’s neck, dragging his lips against Trott’s oversensitive skin, teeth occasionally gently scraping against him.

Smith whines, reaching a hand out blindly to grasp at Trott’s wrist. “Will you - fucking -” he says, giving up as he struggles to find the words. Instead he drags Trott’s hand up to his mouth, sucking his first two fingers into his hot, slick mouth.

Trott tries not to moan, but the sound escapes him, regardless. He inches forward, pressing himself flush against Smith, feeling Ross follow him. He’s pressed between their two bodies, heat and lust filling his lungs as he pushes his erection against Smith’s thigh.

Smith groans, sucking Trott’s fingers in deeper. Trott’s other hand slides down, squeezing between their bodies to brush against Smith’s erection, which is trapped between their bellies.

Smith bucks against him, instinctively, head lolling back against the tiles.

Trott feels Ross’ hand, suddenly slick with something other than water, sliding into his crease. Trott tilts his hips, giving Ross easier access, and Ross moans against Trott’s neck in appreciation.

The tilt of his hips moves his erection away from the press of Smith’s thigh, though, and Trott pulls his hand away from Smith to seize his own erection.

Smith releases the fingers of his other hand and says insistently: “ _Tro-ott_ ,” dragging the name into two syllables.

“One minute,” Trott mutters. He shifts against Smith until he can pull his erection up and alongside Smith’s. Once Smith feels the solid weight of Trott against his own hardness, he gives an overenthusiastic groan.

“Thank fucken christ,” he says. “Now _do something_ , Trott, please.”

Trott does. He wraps his hand around both of their erections and moves his slickened fingers down, between their legs.

Ross steps up behind him, and he feels the press of Ross’ erection between his cheeks. “Fuck,” he hisses, “Ross, that’s so good.”

“ _Trott_ ,” Smith says again, and Trott reaches around to press his fingers against Smith’s opening.

His first finger slips in nearly effortlessly to the first knuckle. Smith groans and writhes against him. Trott thinks Ross must be watching over his shoulder, because just as Smith convulses, Ross bites down on Trott’s pulse point.

Trott sucks in a breath through his nose, dizzy in the steam. He drags his hand up and down his and Smith’s erections, reveling in the feel of hot, velvety flesh against his fingers. The water is just enough to ease the way, but there’s still an almost too strong friction, bordering on painful.

Smith hisses, shoving himself back onto Trott’s fingers. His second one slips inside Smith’s hole, the ring of muscle fluttering around his knuckles at the sudden invasion.

Smith seems to like it just bordering on painful.

Ross moves both of his hands up and into Trott’s hair, holding his head still. Trott feels a thrill at the sensation; the tug in his hair, the firm grip of Ross’ hands holding him in place. He tries to move back against Ross, to rub himself against his erection, and just barely manages to do so. Ross huffs a laugh against the skin of his shoulder and gives a thrust of his hips, pushing Trott against Smith.

Trott lets it happen, eyes flicking to Smith’s face to watch the way his eyes flutter as Trott tugs on their erections. His movements are small, impeded by their bodies, and that lends an almost furtive air to their movements. Smith jerks up and down, trying to get Trott to push inside him farther.

Trott waits, a quiet smirk playing at his lips.

Finally, it seems Smith gives in, opening his lips and hissing: “ _Please_ , Trott, would you just fucking--”

Trott pushes his fingers deep into Smith and crooks them, pressing against Smith’s prostate. He howls, jerking against Trott and coming in a rush. Ross bites down on Trott’s shoulder again, and Trott feels his tongue flicker out to taste Trott’s skin.

Smith leans back against the shower wall, the picture of blissful orgasm, mouth open and gulping in breaths. Trott slowly pulls his fingers out, enjoying the way Smith’s hole clenches around him as if determined to keep him inside.

Smith blinks his eyes open, somewhat blearily, and throws an arm around Trott’s shoulders, tugging him in close, bending him at the waist.

Ross’ grip shifts on Trott’s sides, pulling him back so Ross can thrust more easily against him. Trott revels in the feel of Smith’s arms holding him up, the hot insistent press of Ross’ erection between his cheeks.

Trott hisses, reaching down to stroke himself, but Smith catches his hand in time. “Wait,” he says, and Trott gives a frustrated little snarl before giving in and letting Smith drag his hand away.

Ross’ fingers tighten against his waist, and Trott pushes back against his thrusts, trying to increase the stimulation. He feels Ross’ breath panting against his shoulder, hears the exhalations right next to his ear.

He reaches around with his free hand, gripping Ross by the roots of his hair and tugging. Ross yanks Trott back against him and comes against him. Trott feels the sticky fluid coating his crease and sliding down the line of his arse.

Ross sighs, slumping against Trott, losing his strong grip against Trott’s sides. Trott hisses quietly, desperate now for someone - something - to touch his neglected cock.

Smith comes to the rescue, pushing Trott and Ross back gently so he can get to his knees. They shuffle awkwardly away, Ross’ still-hard cock still pressed against Trott. Trott sucks in a breath at the sight, Smith staring up at him with guileless eyes, mouth downturned in a pout.

Then Smith leans in, resting his hands against Trott’s thighs, and licks one long stripe up the length of his cock. Trott hisses in response.

Smith smirks, leaning in, and sucks down the tip of Trott’s cock. He doesn’t move his hands, using them to hold Trott still. His tongue flickers out and caresses Trott’s slit, and Trott’s hips jerk against him.

Smith sucks in a deep breath through his nose, then slides down on Trott’s cock, keeping his lips tight around him. Trott bites his lip, the feel of Smith’s hot wet mouth sending shivers up and down his spine.

Trott reaches down, burying his fingers in Smith’s curly hair, and Smith bobs his head up and down on Trott’s cock, movement quick and hot and dirty. Trott’s fingers tighten in Smith’s hair, tugging the strands a little harder than is polite.

Smith strokes the flat of his tongue along the underside of Trott’s erection, and that’s all the more Trott needs to come, falling back against Ross in his fervor. Smith swallows down his come, lips tight around Trott’s cock.

When Trott comes back to himself, the water is beginning to run cooler, and Smith is standing again, leaning heavily against him. Trott pats his arm, gently, and the three of them finally disentangle.

They finish the shower in satisfied silence. Smith hisses to himself as he cleans himself off, and Trott smirks quietly to himself in smug pleasure.

~

“That’s it, then?” Smith asks, and Trott briefly wonders what on earth he’s talking about.

“Yes, we’d better go now, before the police come with a battering ram,” Ross interjects, retrieving his sock from underneath the bed.

“Can we really do this?” Trott asks. “Do you really think..?”

“Mate,” Smith says, gripping one of Trott’s shoulders. “We fucking _can_ , mate.”

Trott bites his lip before nodding. Smith’s hand slides along his shoulder, coming to rest against the side of his neck. “Um. Makeup’s gonna have a field day, though.” Smith presses down with his thumb, and Trott hisses as he feels the sore patch of skin there.

“Ross, you _fucker_ ,” Trott snarls. “You-!” Smith’s head lands on his shoulder, back shaking with laughter. “Oh, go bugger yourself, Smith!”

“No more buggering!” Ross insists. “Downstairs! Now!”

Smith pulls away and follows Ross, leaving Trott to trail behind. “I will fucking get you back for this, Ross Hornby,” he mutters.

Ross throws a look over his shoulder, eyes glinting mischievously. “I’ll look forward to it, mate.”

~

Spotlights play on the red carpet before them.

They’ve arrived together in a limousine. It’s innocuous enough, Ross supposes. It’s unfortunate that they’ll probably never really be able to come out about their relationship. Ross suspects that no matter what way it’s presented to the press, it probably won’t be accepted as well as they’d like.

But this is enough for them. Close friendship. Perhaps suspiciously close, to the observant, but rumors are far easier to dismiss than fact.

“Fuck,” Smith mutters under his breath. “I’m gonna fucking die.”

“Calm down,” Trott says, exasperated. “You’ll be fine.”

“You’re a natural, Smith,” Ross chimes in, “and you’ll be with Trott. You’ll be absolutely fine. Me, on the other hand…”

“Fuck off, decision’s made, mate. I get Trotty. You go it alone.”

“I know,” Ross says ruefully. “But this is one of those times I find myself regretting my generous nature.”

“ _Generous_ ,” Trott says.

“Who came twice last night, again?” Smith adds.

“That wasn’t my decision! You ganged up on me!” Ross protests.

Smith leans in, nervousness forgotten. “So, Director Hornby, would you say that you were-”

“ _Don’t say it_.”

“-gangbanged?”

“That’s it. I disown you as my boyfriend. Get the fuck out of the limousine.”

“With pleasure,” Smith says. He stands, pulling Trott to his feet by the hand as well. “We’ll go first, then? Cheers.”

“Cheers yourself,” Ross mutters, and lets them go.

They cut a striking couple. He had thought so when he’d made the casting decisions, and he’d ultimately been right. Though it had been a rocky road getting there.

But despite everything, he wouldn’t change it - them - for the world.

As he steps out of the limousine, a few minutes later, he’s startled by the bright flash of lights and clamouring voices - but it’s gratifying. This is what he wanted, what he - all of them - worked so hard for. He greets them with a smile and a wave, shaking hands where he can.

“Director Hornby!” a reporter calls, just a pitch louder than the rest, and he decides to approach her.

“Hello,” he says, holding a hand out to shake.

She takes it with a smile, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Looks like you had an exciting time last night!”

Ross falters, glancing down at himself. He looks all in order, tuxedo clean and pressed, shoes shined. What on earth is she-?

She gestures to his neck, and with a sudden sense of doom, Ross lifts his hand up to his neck.

 _There_ , underneath his chin, the skin is tender and slightly raised.

A fucking hickey.

A fucking _hickey_ on the red carpet at his directorial debut.

He makes a half-turn, tilting his torso in the direction of Smith and Trott, who stand together taking questions from a gaggle of reporters. As if he can sense his stare, Trott tilts his head subtly, allowing eye contact.

His smile is downright sadistic. Ross widens his eyes, trying to give him an intimidating look, but all he gets in response is a flash of bright white teeth as Trott turns back to the reporters.

“Director Hornby?” His attention zeroes back in on the reporter.

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

“What was it like to work with an actor with as much experience as Chris Trott?”

Ross hears the telltale sound of Smith’s laughter rising above the chatter of voices. He grins. “Well, it was certainly _interesting_ …”


End file.
